


by foreign hands (or by familiar)

by ACometAppears



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Ableist Language, Aftermath of Violence, Biphobia, Body Dysmorphia, Civilian Steve, Florist Steve, Gen, Genderqueer Bucky, Homophobia, M/M, Non-Binary Bucky, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Non-Verbal Safewords, PTSD, Panromantic Asexual Sam, Past Abuse, Sexual Content, Therapy, Traffic Light System, Trans Steve, Transphobia, Winter Soldier Bucky, all the above will be warned for in the specific chapters they come up in - in author's notes, discussion of bloody violence, discussion of consent, discussion of therapy, dissociative episodes (discussed and warned for), fugitive bucky, hydra escapee bucky, mild emeto (again it is warned for), minor misgendering, mostly non-verbal bucky, nb Bucky, non-verbal bucky, panic attacks (warned for), pararescueman sam, safe words, sexual content in chapters 8 and 10, shrinkyclinks, side sam/riley, steve sings to the flowers, trans man Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-05-16 22:05:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 54,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5842687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACometAppears/pseuds/ACometAppears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve is a small trans florist who knows his way around a baseball bat. Bucky is a fugitive from the men that have hurt him for seventy years. Their paths cross one night when, panicked and alone, Bucky decides to hide in Steve's shop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So the summary basically covers it lads. I did some concept art for this fic if you're interested in it (jackbrogers.tumblr.com/tagged/florist-steve). It's not essential viewing, it just helped me get it all straight in my head!
> 
> This fic will is multi-chapter: if you're looking for another AU with trans Steve and Bucky, I recently completed one called the one-armed tailor. I have a canon compliant trans steve fic (that's my man) and genderqueer bucky fic (call me bucky), too. 
> 
> Anyway that's enough shameless self-promotion. Thanks to everyone who encouraged me, and in particular to rebecca for helping me find a title (it comes from The Flower by alexander sergeyevich pushkin. Enjoy!! 
> 
> UPDATE: there's a playlist of all the music referenced in this fic and more - not essential to listen to, but if you're into that kind of thing, then it's here: http://8tracks.com/greatatboats/by-foreign-hands-or-by-familiar  
> WARNINGS: this chapter contains mentions of past transphobic/homophobic abuse, one case of misgendering, and brief casual transphobia/biphobia.

Trains rattle past and sirens wail in the distance, unaware of the thousands of sleeping residents they might disturb. It’s all part of living in New York City. 

Steve’s used to every single sound he might hear, through the paper-thin walls of the apartment above his shop. He’s used to drunks outside, and his neighbours’ laughter; he’s used to car alarms, and the scuffling that comes with fist fights. He’s even used to people trying to break into his shop, or damaging it somehow: he spent most of this week picking broken shards of glass out of soil, and haggling over the price of more resistant glass with his supplier, after an attack on both himself and the shop. He’s not living a charmed life, really. 

His eyes open slowly, his body growing rigid, when he hears footsteps downstairs. Heavy, plodding footsteps: weighty boots on the ground, slowly stepping around the shop. Not rushed, not frantic. Taking their time. He’s thrown back to his childhood, when his mother would have to reassure him that the creaks and the distant screaming of train tracks weren’t, in fact, monsters. Because those heavy steps could easily belong to a monster – albeit a human one. Steve seems to be attracting them, of late. 

But he didn’t hear anyone break in. He doesn’t do anything for a few minutes, believing he’s made the sound up, or imagined it, on the soft edge between sleep and wakefulness: but then he hears two more footsteps. 

And he decides no one gets his shop. No one gets the better of him, and what’s his, ever again. 

He creeps out of bed, pulling on sweatpants and a sweatshirt to swamp his tiny frame, as if it’ll make him look intimidating: sure, it probably won’t do a damn thing, but Sam’s baseball bat might do something to help the intruder feel a little out of their depth. _Maybe._

Carefully, he opens the door of his bedroom, and pads softly across the short hallway and down the stairs: as quietly as he possibly can, he opens the door to the shop floor, and steps through. 

He left the blinds open, when he closed up shop, earlier: he likes people to be able to see the plants, even when the shop isn’t open. They might come back, if they like what they see. And, besides: the natural light that drifts through in the morning helps with the plants’ natural phototaxis. At the moment, the light flooding through the blinds, casting slashes of white and orange light onto the shop floor, comes from both the moon and the working street lights. It creates a strange glow on usually colourful plants; it feels strange, to Steve, to be down here past midnight, without it being to work on an order that has to be ready desperately early the next morning. 

It feels like something is _wrong_.

Then, he spots the intruder: he stands facing the wall, at the far end of the shop. He’s completely still: Steve thinks it’s a man, because of his size, but he can’t be one hundred percent sure. He casts a strange silhouette: huge, bulky, with hair that hangs down and catches small patches of shining light. Steve almost can’t see him breathing. 

But as he steps a little closer, he can make it out: the man’s shoulders move slowly, in a very regimented, controlled way. Very deep breaths, very drawn out. The kind of breaths Steve tries to take when he’s using his inhaler. 

Shrouded in black, and about double Steve’s size, the man might as well be a monster, for all the intimidation Steve feels at that moment. But then he sets his jaw, grips the handle of the bat, and brings it up by his head like he’s seen Sam do so many times before, out in the park when they played ball. Sam was always a better batter than him, though. Steve couldn’t even see the ball half the goddamn time – Sam still let him win, the other half. 

“What are you doing in my shop?” Steve growls in his most authoritative voice. The figure doesn’t flinch, or react immediately. He just keeps breathing deeply, doggedly, as Steve’s fingers grip tighter on the polished metal. 

Finally, he moves: he looks over his shoulder, before twisting his body around, and planting his feet a shoulder-width apart. His hands hang by his sides. He’s got no bag: only a black coat, black trousers, and black boots. They look military-grade: Steve would recognise the cut of the trousers and the boots, at least, even without having admired Sam in similar garb in the past. The jacket, though . . . Steve doesn’t recognise. But it still screams _paramilitary_. 

Steve gulps, but his face remains defiant and angry. He’s not gonna be scared of someone who won’t even make a move on him; won’t make a demand, just waiting for Steve to give way to fear. He’s long since resolved not to give in to intimidation tactics. 

The man’s eyes are dark; they might be blue, or grey, or brown, in this light. His face is obscured with brown stubble, the same dark shade as his limp, messy hair. He peers blankly out from under all that hair and at Steve’s face. His eyes barely move, the light reflecting off them not changing its shine. His facial expression doesn’t betray any emotion at all. 

“Cash desk’s over there, genius,” Steve tells him sarcastically. He blinks. “Not that I want you to take anything. You’re not getting a cent. Get out,” 

The man just blinks again. He looks like he might not understand Steve. 

“. . . You understand me? I want you to leave,” He says again, slower. The man doesn’t move. “You speak English? – Spanish? . . . What?” Steve asks, mentally preparing to dust off the small amount of Spanish he’s picked up, just from living in this area of the city. 

The man’s eyes travel to Steve’s lips, as he talks. Steve has an idea.  
“Deaf?” He asks, releasing the bat with one hand to sign as best he can. 

Finally, the man moves: Steve steps back at the sudden motion, as he shakes his head.  
“Do you speak English? – Do you understand it?” Steve asks again. Finally, the man nods. 

But then, strangely, he turns away again, to look back at the wall. Steve frowns, trying to get his attention with another, “Hey!” 

It’s no use. Steve begins to wonder what he’s looking at: he looks the man up and down, yet again, and bites his lip, because it doesn’t help at all. It’s an awkward position he’s in, and he doesn’t really know how to react. He hasn’t been threatened, except by the man’s presence; he can’t see any weapons on him, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have any. He decides to remain cautious and, ever so carefully, take a step to approach him; to one side, to get a better view of his eyeline. 

He stares at group of flowers that Steve positioned near the window: they’re pink, and blue, and yellow, and white. There are some purple ones in there, too. Steve ordered them in especially for a German client: one who misses skiing in the Austrian Alps, on family holidays. The flowers are leaving the day after tomorrow, to furnish a ludicrously expensive apartment on the Upper East Side. 

“They’re, uh . . . Not for sale. Don’t touch them,” Steve tells the man. He doesn’t move to look at Steve, until he says, “. . . They're Alpine flowers. From Austria,” 

The man’s head snaps towards Steve, and his expression changes dramatically: he frowns deeply, as if Steve’s said something that offends him; his eyes move from side to side, tracking something Steve can’t see, trying to make sense of something he’s said. Steve doesn’t realise he’s lowered his bat, until he gets the sudden urge to raise it again. He doesn’t respond to that urge, though. 

“Are you alright?” He asks, still very much guarded, but more worried, now. It’s growing ever clearer that this isn’t robbery: this man is obviously disorientated, and confused. He isn’t like the men who smashed Steve’s windows, a week or so ago. At least, Steve hopes he's not. He's still got bruises, and he doesn’t need any more. 

There’s no answer. So Steve rephrases, “Are you hurt?” 

The man nods. 

“Do you need a doctor? I can call 911. I guess you don’t have a phone,” Steve offers. 

The man shakes his head, his expression decisive, now. Though he doesn’t speak, it’s clear that he vehemently doesn’t want Steve to call the emergency services. Whether that be an ambulance, or the police. Steve’s growing more concerned and confused by the minute. 

Steve sighs, and rubs his face with his free hand, while the man watches:  
“I . . . Look-”

Steve hears something outside that draws both of their attentions: a loud car engine; several loud engines, approaching quickly. Steve can see high-beams growing closer from down the street. 

His gaze is drawn swiftly back to the dark of the shop when he feels a cold, strong grip on his thin wrist: he looks down and sees something shiny and silver gripping his skin, not tight enough to hurt, but _urgent_ in its intent. It looks like a hand – the silver disappears up into the man’s coat. Steve’s indignant gaze flashes up to the man’s face. He sees something like desperation behind his eyes: a fear that Steve can’t even begin to describe lurks behind them, begging to break free, but somehow unable. 

“They’re here for you?” Steve hisses. The man nods quickly. “Why?” 

The man licks his lips, his eyes tracking movement outside the window for a few seconds, before he looks back to Steve, face completely consumed by fear as much as it can be, while maintaining a certain blankness that renders him something other than mundane; perhaps something other than _human_. 

Steve’s eyebrows raise, prompting him to speak, as they hear car doors slam just down the block. The man’s grip tightens ever so slightly, and his mouth opens to try and speak. Eventually, Steve’s insistent eyes coax the words out of him:  
“I can’t d-disappear,” He says, his voice shakier, quieter and softer than Steve had imagined it would be. It’s a little rough around the edges, as if he’s lost his voice, recently. Perhaps he’s mostly mute. That would certainly fit with what Steve’s seen so far.

Steve hears loud conversations in the distance: he wouldn’t even need his cochlear implant to hear how angry they sound, yelling so close and so loud. He suddenly fears that this is gang-related, or something like that. He can’t afford to lose the shop. He won’t lose it to _anyone_. 

He glances down at the man’s silver hand around his wrist, still not really sure what he’s looking at, as he feels something thrum against his skin from within; some sort of mechanical parts, mostly quiet, with the occasional chirrup. It’s too much to process, right now. 

_I can’t disappear_. Steve will be damned if he’s going to be responsible for the death of a trauma victim – even if they broke into his shop, _somehow_. 

Steve moves, and the man watches him nervously, as he releases his grip on Steve’s wrist: he bounds across the shop, going for the blinds, and shutting them properly, casting them into relative darkness. Occasional gaps in the blinds let small pools of midnight light into the room, and they reflect off Steve’s visitor’s strange hand. They stand in the darkness, for a couple of minutes, listening to indistinct shouting and arguments outside; they keep their eyes trained on one another, though Steve’s vision in particular blurs and dances in the dark, until all he sees of the man’s face is every scruffy young hipster who’s walked into his shop to buy a rose for their partner. If he wasn’t in whatever situation he’s in, Steve doesn’t doubt that he’d be very well turned out. In the dark, he somehow seems smaller, and younger. He shrinks into himself. Perhaps he’s hiding from more than whoever is outside. 

There’s a bang on the glass door of the shop. Steve tenses, and the man grows very rigid, with a whirring sound that Steve supposes comes from whatever’s under his left sleeve. Steve’s eyes flit to the door, gripping tightly onto his bat once more. 

Neither of them move, pretending not to be there. But the hammering continues. 

“NYPD, open up!” A voice calls. Steve casts his gaze over to his visitor. He shakes his head silently, his eyes shining. Steve wonders if it’s just the light. 

Steve moves towards the door, and the visitor starts forward – Steve casts him a look that, even in the dark, gives him pause. _I’ve got this_. 

“Behind the desk. Go,” 

Stealthy and silent, the man makes his way with much lighter steps over to the cash desk, and ducks down behind it, hiding away from whoever’s at the door. Making sure he’s well out of sight before he does so, Steve opens up the front door. 

“Yes, officer?” He asks, feigning a yawn. He’s still acutely aware that he’s about 5’4”, weighs under 100 lb, and is wearing pyjamas. 

“Whoa – easy, buddy,” The man outside the door says, pointing down at his baseball bat: “You wanna put that down?”  
“Not particularly, officer. It’s a rough neighbourhood,” Steve says, giving him a hard, suspicious stare. “Can I see some ID?” He asks. 

The man fishes in his inner suit pocket, and briefly flashes Steve an ID badge of some sort, that he doesn’t really get a chance to look at. Steve doesn’t make a big deal out of it, but he decides not to trust this guy as far as he could throw him. 

“We’ve had some calls about a disturbance. A dangerous escapee has been spotted in this neighbourhood,” The _officer_ tells Steve.  
“And I thought maybe you’d finally come about whoever broke my windows and beat the crap out of me last week. I’ve still got bruises all over. But better later than never, right?” Steve says bitterly, fixing the man with a cold gaze.  
“No. I’m not here about that incident. Although . . .” He says, looking at the stickers in Steve’s window – _lgbt+ pride, trans pride, bisexual pride_ – “. . . Maybe you want to stop advertising _that_ kind of thing. You’re making yourself a target. A bit inflammatory,”  
“So it’s _my_ fault?” Steve asks, anger seeping into his voice. “My fault I was assaulted. My fault my home and business got trashed. Glad to know I can count on the police to have my back,” He snipes.  
“Calm down, ma’am,” The officer tells him. He sees red, hand clenching on the handle of his bat even more.  
“It’s sir. And no, I haven’t seen your escaped prisoner,” He lies, practically shaking with pent-up rage.  
“It’s really vital that we find him. He’s a killer. We were transferring him between facilities, and-”  
“I haven’t seen him. And I’m not letting you in without a warrant. Feel free to get off my property,” He says, beginning to close the door. The man stops him with a boot in the doorway.  
“Here’s my card,” He says, offering Steve the card from his pocket. “You call me if you hear anything about him. Or you’re obstructing the course of justice,”  
“I’ll just call 911, thanks. I don’t think you’d know justice if it kicked you in the face with a steel-capped boot,” Steve says, slamming the door closed harshly, forcing the man to remove his foot from the doorway. He locks the door, as he hears the officer curse out some ugly slurs; he waits, still and holding his breath, until he finally hears his footsteps echo into the distance. 

He breathes out, and makes his way to the cash desk:  
“All clear,” He breathes, looking down at the floor where his guest is sitting. But when he casts his gaze downwards, he discovers something odd – he’s fallen asleep. His face is scrunched up, and his limbs are curled in on himself. 

“Oh, no – no, god,” Steve mumbles, placing his hands on his hips and frowning. Biting his lip, he considers the man for a moment, before looking into his small back office, wondering what to do. 

After deliberating for a long moment, he makes his way to his office, retrieves the blanket he keeps on the back of his chair, and drapes it over the man. He locks the door up to his apartment behind him, and tries to think about it no more throughout a fitful couple of hours' sleep. 

But when he comes downstairs the next morning, there’s no trace of the man. The only sign that he was ever there is the blanket, folded up neatly on the floor, and one of yesterday’s white roses left on the cash desk. 

Steve stares at it for a few minutes, glowing in the twilight that comes before dawn, and wonders if he did a good thing, last night. He thinks he might’ve.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back!! You're probably going to get weekly thursday updates from now on for this fic. Lucky you!!
> 
> WARNINGS: mentions of past abuse of both Steve and Bucky, very mild.

Steve can’t stop thinking about his visitor, over the next day. But he presumes that’s the last he’ll see of him, when the following night he experiences no disturbances: no noises from the shop downstairs, no knocks at the door, and definitely no police intervention. Even about the attack last week. 

He turns out to be wrong. He finds that out when he’s struggling with a large, heavy plant, freshly repotted, trying to carry it across the shop in the mid-morning sun. 

A hand appears, lifting the edge of the pot up, and holding it stationary. Steve blinks down at the hand, just pale flesh and muscle and bone; he follows the course of the limb, to a thickly muscled body, right up to a stubbly, shadowy face. 

“You,” Steve murmurs, surprised to see the man again. The man stares at his face with wide eyes, looking perhaps a little wary, as if he’s afraid of judgement. Steve looks down at his arm, again, and where he’s holding the extremely heavy pot in one hand: he’s not even straining. Steve frowns.  
“You're pretty strong," Steve says, though he feels silly for pointing out the obvious. The man just licks his lips, and sets the pot down on the side. He doesn’t answer.  
“. . . What have you been doing?” Steve asks. The man’s nostrils flare, and he looks out of the window and into the middle distance. He gives a great sigh, but doesn’t answer. Steve thinks he understands.  
“There was no escaped prisoner. I looked everywhere - all the papers,” Steve says, turning back to his flowers; he shifts a smaller pot to the part of the side he was working on before, and starts to unearth the flower inside it. The man’s eyes follow Steve’s slender fingers, listening intently to his words. 

“There was nothing at all online. I . . . Was right, to listen to you. So to speak,” He says, with a small smile, looking up at the man’s face. He doesn’t expect anything back, from that gesture: so his eyes widen in surprise, and his smile broadens slightly, when he sees the man smile back at him weakly. 

He opens his mouth, and shuts it again; Steve waits patiently, turning back to his work. He removes the flower from the pot, and places it into a container he’s pre-lined with his own recipe mulch. 

“Thank you,” 

Steve looks up, eyebrows raised. The man actually looks to be blushing – Steve can’t be sure, but he thinks so. His expression softens.  
“It’s fine. But-” He licks his lips, and the man watches him. Steve looks him up and down: his clothes are the same, and his hair is unkempt; his stubble is even longer, today. If he looks closely, he can see a healing graze on his right cheek – it looks like it’s been healing for days, though. Maybe he just didn’t see it, before. He said he was hurt, after all, but he didn’t say how. 

“. . . Are you okay? You look like you haven’t washed. Or slept, really,” Steve reasons. 

The man casts his gaze to the floor; he folds his arms, but it’s awkward. It’s not a natural position, for him. It just looks forced – like he’s pretending to be something he’s not. Like he’s not done it before. 

Then Steve decides to go out on a limb. 

“You can use my shower, if you want. I really don’t mind. Then if you want to move on, go wherever, you can. You don’t have to stay in the city, if you’re afraid . . . _They_ will find you. I’m not gonna make you do anything, but you’re welcome to my shower,” 

He shakes his head. 

“Okay,” Steve says, holding his hands up. “Could you move this over there, though?” He says to the man, indicating the heavy repotted plant, and several of its siblings across the shop. He nods, and does so with one hand, effortlessly.  
“Wish I was as strong as you. I could do with that around the shop. Seeing as it’s just me now,” Steve says, his voice trailing off. The man straightens, and looks back at him. He looks concerned. 

Steve sighs. “If you’re feeling like you can’t impose . . . I mean, you could help me shift some of these big guys,” Steve says, indicating the larger plants. “You can earn a shower,” 

The man frowns, cocking his head to the side slightly, and considering Steve, who waits patiently, keeping his expression and body language open. The man’s gaze drifts to the big plants – and then back to the alpine plants. He stares at them for a good minute or two; he nods, finally. 

“What can I call you?” Steve asks tentatively. Without prelude, the man looks in his jacket pocket, and takes out a folded and slightly crumpled sheet of paper: his eyes scan it for a moment, and finally fix on one point.  
“Bucky,” He says decisively.  
“Bucky it is, then,” Steve says, knowing it’s got to be a false name - but it seems better than just thinking of him as a visitor, or a guest. At least now he’s not letting a complete stranger into his home, he kids himself. But when he looks at Bucky, and the sorry state he’s in; remembers the fear in his eyes, and the exhaustion, and the desperation . . . He can’t bring himself to care, all too much. 

Bucky moves everything Steve tells him to. He does it without question, silently, as quickly as he can. Steve steals as many glances as he can at him, watching him effortlessly lift the heaviest pots with one arm only, each; watching his dark eyes, calculating, but not inquisitive, or sinister. Somehow, Steve can’t shake the feeling that he’s not looking at a man at all. But he’s not frightened. 

He tries not to look at the flash of silver that sometimes glints in the mid-morning light, erupting from the end of Bucky’s sleeve. He can’t bring himself to ask about it, because Bucky clearly isn’t willing to share. But that doesn’t mean Steve doesn’t talk to him. He’s lonely; maybe Bucky is, too. It’s been awful quiet since Sam left. 

“I have a client coming in today. She's collecting the alpine plants – the ones you looked at, over there,” Steve says, not looking at Bucky as he says it, but instead potting up another plant, the mulch sticking in small clumps to his gloves. “Have you seen them before?” He asks, glancing up at Bucky, and trying to keep his tone light.  
“I know them,” Bucky replies, surprising Steve. It’s a strange answer, but that’s okay. It’s progress at least.  
“Are you from Austria? Do you speak German?” Steve asks, not wanting to push his luck, but wondering if that’s why Bucky doesn’t talk much. He doesn’t have an accent, but then again, a lot of people don’t.  
“I speak German,” Bucky answers vaguely, echoing him. Steve still doesn’t have a clue where he came from. Or who was after him. He suppresses a sigh. 

After a long pause, Steve hands Bucky the last repotted plant, and gestures for him to move it with a murmured _thank you_. He takes his gloves off, and makes his way to the alpine plants. Bucky sidles up quietly behind him, and stares too. 

“The Edelweiss – that’s the hardest to keep happy,” Steve says, pointing at a white flower with long petals. “Sometimes people use it to represent the Alps. But also just – Austria in general. Or Switzerland. Or Romania,” He lists. “They should make up their minds,”

Bucky nods silently beside him. His breathing is calm, and quiet, Steve observes from the corner of his eye. 

“Gentiana alpina,” He continues, gently taking a blue flower between his slender fingers, and presenting it to Bucky. “ _Gentiana_ comes from the name of an Illyrian king,” He explains, before releasing the flower. He goes to touch another: “Narrowleaf arnica. It’s found all over, this one – a little easier to get hold of. Everything else was a real pain to get here in one piece, or to grow – but this one grows everywhere from right here in North America, to Russia,” 

Bucky stiffens a little, at Steve’s side: but his face is still awed and attentive, so Steve points and adds:  
“And this – this one’s an alpine rose. I kinda like the bright pink. What do you think?” 

Bucky bites his lip, watching as Steve gently takes a petal between his fingers, stroking the soft tissue, before letting it go, undamaged. 

“. . . Are there red ones?” Bucky asks, staring at the bright pink, his vision fixed, and his voice far away.  
“Mm?” Steve hums.  
“Remember red,” Bucky mumbles quietly.  
“You remember . . . ?” Steve asks, frowning and turning to Bucky. “What do you mean?”

Bucky finally looks him in the face, as if he’s just come to: he’s back in the room, in the here and now, amongst the warmth and the sweet-smelling flowers. 

“Don’t remember a lot,” He explains bluntly. A cool rush of realisation flows through Steve, as it dawns on him: that explains the vague details, and the lack of information forthcoming from Bucky. It might be a front, sure – but he knows trauma victims lose their memories, in some cases. So he’s either a trauma victim, as he seems – or he’s involved in something even more deadly serious. Steve can’t help but spare a glance down to Bucky’s silver hand, yet again. He hopes he doesn’t notice. 

“. . . Do you have somewhere to go?” Steve asks softly, concerned now. “Family?”  
“Th-they’re gone. All g-gone,” Bucky says, looking distressed, and stumbling over his words: it’s the most Steve has heard him say, so far. He reaches up and slowly, hesitantly puts his hand on Bucky’s shoulder, his thumb minutely brushing against Bucky’s neck, giving him pause. 

“Hey, Bucky – it’s okay. It’s alright. We’ll find someone. There’s gotta be someone in the world who knows you,”  
“N-no one but them,” Bucky says, casting his gaze downwards at the floor. Steve, for some reason, though he’s about half Bucky’s size, feels oddly protective of him, at that moment.  
“Look, whatever they did to you . . . We can report it to the police. If they hurt you, we can go to the hospital,” Steve says.  
“No,” Bucky says, still staring at his boots. “They’ll know. Have to leave,” Bucky says, looking up and making for the door again. 

Steve’s surprise lasts for a couple of seconds; then, he feels a little frustrated. He follows Bucky, stomping after him: this guy is in need of some serious help, but he’s turning his back on the only person in the world who knows, and what’s more, is willing to give a shit. 

“Hey!” Steve calls after him, marching right up to him. Bucky turns back to him, looking down with an expression of mild surprise on his face, as Steve crosses his arms.  
“Where did you stay last night?” Steve asks. Bucky just blinks at him. “Nowhere, right? On the street?” 

Finally, Bucky nods. 

“Not tonight. You’re staying here. You’re having your damn shower, and you’re staying here. I won’t tell anyone, but I’m not letting you sleep rough, and I’m not letting you starve. That’s final,” 

Bucky draws himself up to his full height and, for a moment, Steve thinks he might object; thinks he might try and defy him, or hurt him. But he just nods, jaw set, and accepts it. Steve couldn't really _make_ him do anything, but his frustration and his protectiveness are very persuasive. 

“. . . Come on. I’ll show you where the shower is,” 

-

It feels strange, to Bucky, to be clean: to be properly clean, and smelling fresh, and all by his own hand. The shower was warm, and the soap wasn’t medicated, and there was shampoo. Bucky can’t remember the last time his hair was washed. 

He stares blankly at himself in the bathroom mirror for at least five minutes. He’s cold, and he’s dripping wet, and he hasn’t touched the clothes Steve neatly folded and left for him on top of the toilet seat yet . . . But what he looks like when he pushes his hair out of his face, with the last of the black paint washed from his eyes . . . He almost looks similar to the picture on the page he stole from a file left _just in the wrong place_ , within arm's reach - a page with a picture of a bright and happy young man in a uniform, and a photograph of the young man's dog tags, that he wasn't supposed to see. A page currently residing in his uniform pocket. 

He almost looks like James Barnes, who was young, and who smiled, and who meant something to his mother and father and his sister. James Barnes who was a red-blooded American. James Barnes, who Bucky can remember kissed and sweet-talked and slept around with all kinds of people and didn’t care who knew it. 

It’s funny, what comes back to him. Or perhaps it’s because seeing the shop owner, hearing his kind words, feeling his soft touch, reminded him of that attraction, and that affection. But, with all things in his life, it’s like he’s experiencing it from the outside, looking in: his body isn’t his, he doesn’t control it, so when it likes something, it causes him nothing but mild interest. He can't access his own feelings, just yet. 

He’s really trying now, though. He really wants to be human again. 

That’s why he escaped. Maybe. It’s hard to remember why or how it happened. Maybe soon he’ll know. 

He leans in closer, examining the colour of his eyes; the extremely deep brown of his hair, and the thicket of his facial hair. He doesn’t like the length of it. He searches in the cabinet for a razor he can use; the hair falls into the sink as he gives shaving his best shot. He hopes the florist doesn’t mind. 

It’s not a particularly close shave: not the closest Bucky’s ever had, and definitely not the closest he’s ever given. But he’s done his best with a very blunt razor, so he doesn’t mind a five o’clock shadow. 

Old photographs of him aren’t in colour. He’ll just have to trust that his skin has always been this pale and sickly; his hair and eyes have always been this dark. 

He towels himself off, including his hair, and puts on the clothes that the florist gave him: they fit quite well, he finds. The shirt is perhaps a little tight, but at least it has long arms, to cover up his weaponry. He’s not sure how he got his prosthesis, but it must have been _them_. He vaguely remembers being awake for an operation. He can definitely feel some fleshy part, moving inside the metal casing, every time he moves. He supposes it must have stopped hurting at some point. 

He pulls on the socks the florist gave him, and heads downstairs: he doesn’t take too long, because he doesn’t want him to think he’s going to steal his possessions, although the thought had occurred to him – he may need more currency, at some point. He stole a little from a drunk last night, but it won’t last forever. The florist’s welcome might not, either. But he’s trying to just live in the moment. 

He moves down the stairs as quietly as possible, trying not to be nuisance of any sort, and through the doorway and into the shop silently. 

He spots the florist immediately: he’s spraying some of the plants with a fine mist of water beside the window, as the sunlight pours in and onto him from the street outside. It catches in his hair, lighting it up, golden-blond. He has such a look of peace about him, as he goes about his task: it makes Bucky’s mind go completely and utterly quiet. 

Then – humming. The occasional muttered word, in a tune. Singing. The florist is singing to the plants. He sings about a boxer. 

His voice is delicate and quiet, sometimes tapering off to a whisper, and lost amongst the sound of the sprayed water. The words and the melody fill up Bucky’s mind, until they echo off the walls of his skull, and it’s the only thing that he’s consciously aware of. He feels as if he could just fall asleep, on the floor wrapped up in the florist’s blanket, again. 

He sniffs, his eyes growing misty, but he doesn’t know why. He can’t say at all. The cadence of the florist’s voice is familiar; the pitch, and the tone. His accent, even when he sings, is undoubtedly of New York origin. 

The florist’s eyes snap to him immediately, and he starts, clearly not expecting to see him standing there, watching. He lets his breathing even out, for a second, before he says:  
“You made me jump!” Though he’s smiling slightly, and blushing. “I – left some gloves for you. On the cash desk,” 

Bucky nods, and slips them on, as the florist continues, “I . . . I sing to the plants. Sometimes. It’s good for them. Carbon dioxide. Something my Ma taught me. She loved flowers,” He explains quietly, turning back to the plants, and pulling off a couple of dead heads from a large, flowering thicket in the corner of the shop. 

“. . . Sorry,” He apologises eventually, not looking Bucky in the face.  
“I liked it,” Bucky says. He wants to say more – _I like your voice, it helps me forget all the horrible things I can’t stop thinking about. The smell of the shop makes me feel safe. Right now, you make me feel safe. I haven’t felt safe in a very, very long time. Maybe never._

But all he can do is gradually smile. The florist smiles back. 

The bell on the door rings: a beautiful woman with dark brown eyes and a dark complexion steps inside, greeting the florist:  
“Steve!” She says, with a smile.  
“Miss Gruler,” He says, flashing her a wide smile.  
“I told you to call me Clare. Who’s your friend?” She asks, looking at Bucky with an expression of interest. 

Bucky’s eyes widen, as the florist – _Steve?_ – looks at him with a thoughtful expression.  
“You know Sam left for his latest tour, a couple months back? This is my new, um . . . Employee. Bucky, this is Clare. The alpine plants are for her,” Steve explains. Clare extends her hand to Bucky, and he takes it, being careful not to hurt her, as they shake. 

“Nice to meet you, Bucky,” She says, and Bucky nods, not sure what to do with his face. 

Steve shows her to the plants, and Bucky watches as she coos over them, her eyes lighting up with recognition and happiness, as she talks about growing up in Germany; how she doesn’t get back enough, and doesn’t get to holiday in the Alps, usually. 

Bucky doesn’t remember seeing anyone like her, in the past several decades: not in Germany, anyway. What he did in the missing days, and weeks, and years – the times he wasn't really awake, wasn't aware and cognizant, through their best efforts – well . . . He can never be sure. 

“Buck?” 

He glances up, seeing Steve’s expectant face, and realises he’s been asked a question. He mentally rewinds the conversation he’s being half-listening to for the past few minutes, and realises he’s being asked for help move all the plants to a van, ready for Clare to take home. He nods once, and Steve starts to point him in the direction of which plants he should pick up. 

He obliges, taking up four plants at the same time, while the other two look at him like he’s done something wrong: he realises this must be an unusual sight because of the weight of the plants, remembering how Steve reacted to him before. He makes an apologetic expression, but they say nothing. They lead him out to the van, and he doesn’t stop carrying the various flowers until he’s done. 

Clare presses a ten dollar bill into his hand, and smiles at him, before saying goodbye to Steve. He’s left staring after her, as she gets in her van, and drives away. He doesn’t really know what to do with himself: the note crinkles in his hand, and he stares down at it, feeling that it’s a different size and shape to what he’d expect. That’s something that he noticed with the money he procured yesterday, too. 

Steve comes to stand at his side, and hesitantly reaches up to place his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky’s expecting it; he doesn’t flinch. He looks down at Steve, and holds out the money to him. 

“Nah. You earned that. It’s yours,” Steve dismisses. Frowning, Bucky stares down at the money again, feeling strange. _You earned that_. 

He doesn’t remember this feeling. He doesn’t know that it’s pride. 

He pockets the money, before looking down at his feet, and realising that he didn’t have any shoes on the whole time. Steve had mentioned adding his things to his own clothes to take to the laundrette, and he wonders if that meant his boots too. 

He vaguely remembers someone telling him – _threatening him? – You can’t run away, if you don’t have any shoes. You can’t run as fast without them, or as long. Your feet bleed and so will your face, under that mask, when I’m done with you._

“. . . Boots?” Bucky asks, though he feels a little embarrassed.  
“Oh – God, I’m sorry, Buck. I didn’t realise,” Steve says, awkwardly scratching at the back of his neck. “I left ‘em in the shop. But – if you wanna borrow some other shoes, that’s fine. What size are you?” 

Bucky shrugs: the movement is so natural, so organic, that it doesn’t register that it’s the first time he’s done it in decades. Steve rolls his eyes, not unkindly.  
“I don’t know why I asked. We’ll just have to see,” 

Bucky follows Steve inside: Steve picks Bucky's boots up from a small rack of shoes beside the cash desk. He checks the soles; has a quick look inside, and frowns.  
“They don’t say the size on them,” He mutters, mainly to himself. To Bucky, he says, “Try a pair of Sam’s sneakers. His clothes fit you alright,” Indicating the rack again. 

Bucky looks down at the neat array of shoes. _Sneakers_. He’s not sure about that word. But he picks up a pair of black and white ones with laces, and steps into them; he wriggles his toes, and flexes his feet. He nods.  
“Lucky. You and Sam are around the same size – except your arms. Or, well . . . You know,” Steve says awkwardly. Bucky raises his eyebrows, and looks up to see Steve glancing at his left arm. 

Even under the long-sleeved black and white shirt, some of the outlines of the plates are visible; to those who know about the prosthesis, it’s obvious. To those without, though, Bucky supposes it just looks well-muscled, at a glance, like his other arm. 

“Who’s Sam?” Bucky asks, drawing Steve’s gaze, embarrassingly pleased with himself for stringing together a full sentence. He can only usually manage it in the heat of battle; when responding to commands, and directing his unit, if he’s got one.  
“A friend. A very good friend,” Steve says softly, looking all around the shop: “This was his family’s shop. When his parents passed and his brothers and sisters moved away, it left him to pick up the pieces. When me and my Ma were having a bit of trouble he let us move in upstairs, with him. It was just the three of us, until she passed, too,” Steve explains quietly. 

Bucky bows his head: he doesn’t know what to say, but he can’t meet Steve’s gaze. He has to think of something else to ask. 

“Where is Sam?” Bucky asks, casting his gaze around for clues. Steve smiles.  
“Overseas. He’s in the airforce, now – has been for a few years. Soon as I convinced him I could look after this place on my own, he was off. Following his dreams – _and_ a guy called Riley,” Steve says, with a sly smile. “But this-” Steve finally looks back at Bucky’s face. “. . . This shop. This is my dream. I think that’s why Ma agreed to move us in here. Always loved this place, since I was a kid. Now I’m co-owner,” 

“. . . A friend,” Bucky echoes, looking at his laced shoes, with a troubled expression.  
“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind you being here, though. Every letter I get, he’s worrying about me being alone in the city. I don’t tell him about people trying to damage the shop,” Steve says, his voice slightly softer; he places his hands on his hips, a reassuring expression on his face. He doesn’t bring up the fact people try and damage _him_ , too. 

“Thank you,” Bucky repeats. Given that he can barely bring himself to open his mouth, the fact he’s said that twice today is a big deal. 

Steve just smiles. Bucky pauses for a moment, gathering his thoughts, and then really puts the effort in: he smiles back, as wide as he can manage. Steve looks a little taken aback, so maybe it looks forced or unnatural. But he’s trying his best. Steve does his best, too, to set him at ease, in a world where he can’t afford to relax. Noble seems like too small a word for it. 

Perhaps he just can’t remember anyone ever being kind to him. And yet, the only ulterior motive Steve’s displayed so far is getting him to move heavy items for him – and in return for a shower, and a place to stay, and borrowed clothes, no less. 

He can’t remember what made him choose to come down this street, but he remembers what made him choose this shop: the colours. The blue, and yellow, and pink, and white. The alpine flowers. The colours on the door. He doesn’t know what they mean, but he comes from a world where everything is black, and white, and red, and green. He doesn’t want to get stuck in that world, ever again. Maybe Steve won’t make him go back, if he’s helpful enough. 

Maybe if he’s good, he can stay. 

“Like I said. I’m not in the business of leaving people without somewhere to sleep,” Steve dismisses, as if what he’s doing isn’t huge, in helping Bucky gather his bearings – giving him somewhere he feels safe to stay, defending him from agents who came for him in the guise of policemen, and giving him simple and easy tasks to help ground him and gather his thoughts. 

He’s doing more than he could imagine. He’s not sure where he’d be, right now, without this shop. By rights, Steve should have really hurt him by now. But he hasn’t. Bucky will just have to wait and see. 

“Come on,” Steve says, beckoning Bucky. “I’ll teach you how to dead-head the flowering plants,”

Bucky doesn’t know what that means, but he’s eager to hold up his end of the deal, in return for Steve’s protection and shelter. So he’ll do whatever he can.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around!! I love you all pls remember that. 
> 
> WARNINGS [expanded upon/described in the notes after the chapter if you're worried and want to check them too] This chapter contains some slight internalised anti-semitism. Frank discussion of transphobia, as well as discussion of gender (including injections, needles), and minor misgendering. Bucky's eating habits are discussed, warning for emeto.

By the end of the day, Bucky feels like he knows more about flowers than about almost anything else in his life – as it stands. Not more than he knows about his usual _occupation_ , but certainly more than he knows about himself. 

Which ones go where; which ones like which light; Latin names, and trivia, and unique traits and scents. Steve doesn’t know his methods for committing each fact to memory: the way he repeats the names over and over in his mind, grounding himself in the moment, with the aid of Steve’s soft voice. 

Steve’s voice is nice: it has a familiar twang, that makes Bucky think he’s been here before. It makes him think it’s no coincidence he ended up here, from . . . _Wherever_ they were holding him before. He’s not sure how he got to the city, but he remembers a train. The repetitive sound, the wail, the loud shuffle of people, the wind and the speed on the outside-

But Steve’s voice helps him put that to one side. There's such passion in his gentle explanatory speech, while he glances up at Bucky to make sure he’s still with him: it’s as if he already _knows_ how Bucky disappears, sometimes; can already _tell_ , in a way his handlers were usually oblivious to, and didn’t know how to cure without physically abusing him. Sometimes they pushed him further over the edge into unresponsiveness: into the abyss of swirling, agonising memories that would cause him to shake, and whine, and fit. 

The only way they knew how to cure that was with the chair. _Bury it deeper. It can't know._

He doesn’t think Steve would want to harm him, like that. But Bucky wouldn’t mind as much, because Steve’s taken the time to make sure it won’t happen, as he sees it. So if it happens, it’s his fault. If it happens, he’ll be good. 

. . . No. No, Steve is not a threat and Steve would not do that. 

He watches Steve make countless transactions for young men and women, parents and children, PAs rushed off their feet – people from all walks of life make their way into the shop, and none of them can help but smile at the flowers. For Bucky, it’s hard to smile. But when he sees them, he feels the same: it makes his brain pause, and some of the tension leave his body. He hopes that’s obvious to Steve, so he knows without saying that Bucky likes this environment – not just from a tactical and protective standpoint, but from a personal one, too. He can’t imagine anything more pleasant, anything more _warm_ , and _comforting_ , and less clinical and cold than the environment he’s existed in since he can remember. 

When the evening sets in, and twilight colours the shop in sweet orange and pink light, Steve finally turns over the sign on the door, showing everyone that they’re closed for business, now.  
“Thanks for your help today, Buck,” Steve says, turning around with a genuinely thankful smile. Bucky shifts slighty. “Oh – sorry. I keep doin’ that. It’s Bucky, not Buck,” He mutters, approaching the cash desk, and making for the till. “Unless you don’t mind it,”  
“Buck,” Bucky says, drawing Steve’s eyes, as he hits some buttons. He’s less surprised, each time Bucky speaks – but he knows, by now, that everything he says is significant and important, or else he wouldn’t say it. Even his choice of words might be clue to his true identity, for both of them, after all. “. . . Sure thing,” Bucky says. 

Steve smiles. 

“Sure thing. _Sure thing_ ,” He says thoughtfully, opening the till. “That’s – well, I don’t know if a native German speaker would put it like that. Can't say for sure. But I think you’re probably American. You’ve got an accent, too . . . Not too different to mine. Maybe near here,” Steve thinks aloud. 

He catches Bucky’s eyes watching avidly, as he counts the bills from the register. His counting slows slightly, and his eyes show a hint of suspicion: Bucky realises he’s being watched. Steve raises an eyebrow at him: the baseball bat is upstairs, but Steve reckons he could make a break for it, if Bucky suddenly turns. 

“. . . They’re different to the ones I remember,” Bucky explains simply, referring to the bills. Steve relaxes.  
“How old _are_ you?” He asks, half-joking. 

But Bucky just swallows, because he doesn’t know. 

“Years since the war?” Bucky asks, his voice rough; he worries at his lip, remembering trenches, and bombs whistling through the air; the smell of mud, and piss, and fear. Leather cutting into his wrists – wrists, not wrist – and the stench of vomit, and blood. Red, white and blue. Uniforms, and photographs, and posters. Cuts, and bruises, and needles. So many scars. 

It stopped, for a while. They got him back, somehow. At some point – _around the same time?_ – he lost an arm. 

The memories fold in on each other, and he realises he’s squeezed his eyes shut, his hands grasping at his hair. 

“-so it really depends on which war you – hey, hey-” Steve’s voice fades in, but it battles with laughter, and barked commands, and the endless drone of sirens designed specifically to keep him awake, keep him alert, _first they break him, then they put him back together again, they make him whole again,_

_but the pieces don’t fit and he’s not the same_

_and he’s damaged and broken_

_and there’s a bit missing right in the middle_

_right in the centre of his mind_

_burned out like a disgraced family member on a family tree that goes on and on,_

_erased for decades and decades and decades and-_

“Bucky – Bucky, Bucky,” Steve is murmuring, over and over, pushing Bucky’s hair out of his face. Bucky’s eyes fly open, greeted directly with Steve’s blue eyes, lined with concern. His freckles stand out against his pale skin, and Bucky’s eyes connect them like constellations. Maybe he can navigate his way back. 

“Deep as you can – breathe, in through your nose. Hey – no cheating. Breathe real deep. Okay – hold it, and let it out of your mouth,” Steve says, in that same calming voice from earlier. The one that helps Bucky keep his feet on the ground, and off people’s throats. 

“That’s it,” Steve praises, and Bucky knows he’s being good. Maybe he can stay, if this hasn’t ruined everything. “We don’t have to talk about it. We don’t have to talk about that,” Steve reassures him. “If you want to, we can. If you’re ready,” 

Bucky nods, trying to make his eyes less obviously wide and wild. He doesn’t want to look possessed. He doesn’t want to scare Steve. He doesn’t want Steve to kick him out. He wants to be good for Steve. So he won't talk. It'll just get worse. He can be good. 

“. . . You want to eat something? I have noodles,” Steve mentions softly. Bucky doesn’t really have an idea of what noodles are – maybe something he forgot, maybe something he didn’t know in the first place – but he nods, trusting that Steve’s going to feed him something nutritious and safe. He’s got nowhere else he can go, without them following him. 

His perception of his safety relies entirely on the fact that they’ve already checked this seemingly insignificant florists, and found no sign of him; that, and the fact that Steve was immediately ready to defend his shop, and everything in it (including Bucky). Steve’s nature is a big factor keeping him from upping and running to somewhere they might have an even better chance of finding him, right now. 

“I’m thinking of making some with pork. Maybe chicken,” Steve muses.  
“Not pork,” Bucky says reflexively. Steve glances back at him, from where he’s already heading to the stairs up to his apartment. He raises his eyebrows. 

Bucky frowns into the middle distance, wondering where that came from. He scratches the back of his neck – the movement comes on its own, but perhaps it’s been learned, as he’s sure he's seen Steve do the same. 

“. . . Okay. Not pork,” Steve says, a little amused, if anything. Bucky smiles sheepishly at him, as he follows him upstairs. 

-

Steve’s a good chef. Not exquisite, but the food is better than Bucky can ever remember eating, by virtue of it being something he actually gets to sink his teeth into. He can’t remember eating much – liquids only, and even worse, injections and IV bags. His stomach complains after a few mouthfuls, but he carries on, not wanting to let Steve down. If he’s rude - if he doesn't follow procedure - he could be kicked out. He doesn’t want to stop feeling safe. 

He’s finely attuned to the protein in the chicken, but the saltiness of the ramen and miso catch him by surprise; the spices Steve uses are foreign to him, catching in his throat, at first. Steve smiles, nudging his glass of water towards him, when he hears him cough. 

He finishes as quickly as he can; he watches Steve finish, but doesn’t look around, not sure if that’s permitted. 

Steve sets down his cutlery, sweeping up their bowls, and dumping them in the sink. Bucky remembers, just for a split second, immersing his fists in hot water, cold water, _freezing ice-water, boiling water, body-deep_ – but it’s gone just as fast. 

“Look, um – I’m thinking you don’t particularly want to stay in the same room as me. The sofa is . . .” He trails off, indicating the piece of furniture in question, which is housing a nursery of potted plants, very young and just blossoming. “ . . . Yeah. But we have a spare room, now. Me and Sam used to share,” Steve explains. 

Bucky nods in encouragement: Steve beckons him, showing him a few steps down the hall, to the spare room. Bucky looks in: the walls are cream, and the curtains are light pink, pulled to the side by neat ties. The room smells of old books; it feels unlived in. He frowns. 

“. . . It was my Mom’s room. Before,” Steve says simply. Bucky steps inside, looking around with an analytical eye; the novels are mysteries, mainly, as well as expected books about botany. Then he spots something above the single bed headboard. 

“I-” Bucky starts, but his words stick in his mouth.  
“What’s wrong?” Steve says. 

Bucky’s gaze is downcast, ashamed, as he nods towards a statue of Jesus on a cross above the bed. 

Sudden realisation dawns on Steve’s face.  
“You’re Jewish?”  
“No!” Bucky denies automatically, backing away from Steve slightly.  
“It’s okay if you are-” Steve begins, but Bucky shakes his head furiously, crossing his arms.  
“No. I’m not. I’m not a – no,” Bucky denies again quickly. Steve’s eyes are wide, as he watches him grow distressed. 

“Alright! Alright,” He says. “But . . . I’ll just-” He takes the crucifix down from the wall, with a small smile at Bucky, to tell him it’s okay. “She was a big believer. Me – not as much. Don’t go to church, really. Think we should all just do the best we can because it’s the right thing to do. Not because we think we’re gonna be punished for not doing it,”

Bucky blinks at him, wondering if he somehow accidentally vocalised his fears about Steve punishing him; the motivations behind his misdeeds when he was with them, and the fear they grew within him like a poisonous, noxious weed. 

“Can I sleep?” Bucky asks.

Steve pauses, looking up from his mother’s idol in his hands. He looks a little concerned that Bucky would even feel the need to ask. 

“Yeah. Go ahead. Let me know if you need anything,” He tells Bucky. But Bucky just nods, forcing a smile, and closing the door behind Steve. He pulls off his shoes, socks, gloves, pants and shirt, and does as he’s been permitted to do, without even shutting the curtains. 

The soft material of the comforter envelopes him, and it’s strange. It’s beyond strange – it’s downright _alien_. No hard floor, no scratching blanket, no beep of a heart rate monitor or cold metal surrounding his limbs. 

Just a bed, and a clock on the wall, and stomach fit to burst with a small helping of ramen noodles and miso soup. 

It’s so unfamiliar that Bucky could cry with distress. But he asked for this, so he’s happy. He must be happy. He wouldn’t know what happiness felt like if it bit him on the ass, but this might be it. He hopes it is. 

-

Steve wakes up the next morning – 5:30, as usual – to the sound of stifled retching. He frowns, wondering if there’s someone downstairs again for a moment, before remembering: _I let Bucky stay the night. That’s got to be him._

He climbs out of bed, pulling his sweats on, and grabbing vial of testosterone from his bedside cabinet, before slipping it into his pocket. It’s part of his routine - some days, at least. 

He steps into the hallway, and spies that the bathroom door is open: he approaches cautiously, not wanting to walk in on anything Bucky wouldn’t be comfortable with. He strangely feels a sense of responsibility for him, now – some of the signs of abuse he’s shown, over the past couple of days, have done nothing to ally the feeling that he needs to look after him. 

“Bucky?” He asks, knocking on the door gently. He hears nothing from inside. He waits a few seconds, hearing no signs of movement, before asking, “Buck? Are you okay?” 

Nothing. 

“Can I come in?” 

The door edges open very gradually, inviting him in. Gingerly, Steve steps over the threshold, and takes a look inside: he sees Bucky, slumped against the sink next to the toilet, his head lolling and his eyes closed. He looks weary, and his breathing is deep. He’s a little green around the gills, and his face is pasty. 

But that’s not what draws Steve’s gaze the most: seeing as he’s sitting there in just his underwear, for the first time, Steve’s getting a _proper_ look at Bucky’s metal arm; at the damage done to his body by God-knows-who. 

He metal seems to be – _welded? Fused?_ \- to his skin, sealed in place, with white scarring radiating out from his shoulder. His torso, on the left, is covered in white shrapnel scars, obviously very old and much weathered. His thighs sport them too, all coming from the left, as if he’s been hit on that side. Something tells Steve it wasn’t a standard fender-bender. 

The white and red of the scarring stand out bold and brash from his pale, sickly skin, daring Steve’s eyes to stare and boggle. There’s a big red star on his left upper arm. Steve has no idea why it’s there, but it sure does look like a brand. 

After initial hesitation, brought about by the sheer shock of seeing Bucky’s scars for the first time, Steve decides to crouch down on one knee, and take a closer look at Bucky’s face, for signs of illness: he’s definitely awake, Steve can tell; he’s just calming himself.  
“Buck?” 

Bucky licks his lips, and opens his red eyes, slowly seeking out Steve’s face:  
“The food,” He says.  
“Are you allergic to something?” 

Bucky shakes his head. His left arm moves and, making much louder chirruping and whirring noises due to the lack of clothes to muffle them, his hand moves to cover his stomach.  
“Liquid diet,” Bucky says simply.  
“What? . . . Usually you don’t eat – solid food?” Steve asks doubtfully. Bucky closes his eyes and nods once.  
“Why didn't you say? – Why did you eat so much?” Steve asks, frustrated. Bucky bows his head a little. Steve notices, for the first time, that he’s shaking. He must be cold. 

Steve sighs: “Look, I don’t mind – I’ve got soup, and stuff. You can work up to it. It was probably just the noodles . . . But I gotta say, I don’t know how you manage to get this kind of muscle mass on a liquid diet,” He muses, considering Bucky’s body; not mentioning the obvious, about it. 

Bucky looks up at him, eyes wide. No explanation is forthcoming. Perhaps he doesn’t remember, himself. 

“Come on – put on your clothes from yesterday for now. I’ve got, uh . . . Tea. Coffee would be bad for your stomach right now. Got a lot of experience with being sick, see,” Steve mentions, offering Bucky a hand. Bucky makes to stand – he ends up pulling Steve up, more than Steve helping him. 

Bucky makes his way back to his room, and Steve steps through into the kitchen: he fills up his Mom’s old kettle, and sets it to boil. He fishes in his medical box for a fresh needle, and pulls it out: sitting down at the table, he makes short work of ripping open its sterile packaging; taking up the testosterone into it, being sure to avoid air bubbles. When the kettle clicks, he gets up, setting the syringe down for a second, to pour Bucky some tea. He makes himself instant coffee instead. 

When Bucky walks back into the room, Steve hears a stumble: he turns around, and sees Bucky clinging to the door frame as if he’s been hit. His bulging eyes are focussed on the needle on the table. Yet again, Steve is horrified at the reaction it elicits.  
“Oh – no, that’s for me! It’s for me,” Steve says. Bucky frowns, looking up at him in disbelief; his expression is stormy, as if he’s suddenly stopped trusting Steve. 

Steve transports their drinks to the table, pushing Bucky’s towards him, and sits down, taking up the needle.  
“It’s for me,” He repeats again. “See?” He says, pulling down the waistband of his sweats slightly; he swabs a patch of skin with an antiseptic wipe and, showing obvious experience, injects himself with the testosterone. 

Bucky shifts a little, in the doorway, as Steve puts the syringe back in the packet, ready to dispose of later. The needle exchange are always happy that there aren’t used needles hanging around in people’s trash. 

“You’re safe. It’s alright. It’s just . . . It’s just testosterone. For me. I take it every ten days,” Steve confides in him. “To keep me – _me_ ,” He adds, finally looking up at Bucky. He stares at Steve’s thigh, where he’s wiping it with the antiseptic wipe, for a moment more; finally, Bucky moves into the room, keeping an eye on the used needle as if it’s a snake ready to strike any second, and sits down. 

“I like 100 mg every ten days. Some people take 250 every two weeks, but I didn’t get on with that,” Steve says conversationally, tidying up, and taking his coffee between his hands. His new plant deliveries shouldn’t be in for about half an hour, so he’s got plenty of time. Especially now Bucky’s here, and can watch the shop, if he needs him to. 

“Testosterone,” Bucky says, eyeing Steve quizzically.  
“The male sex hormone,” Steve simplifies, not wanting to have to spell it out to Bucky, but also not wanting to have to answer more awkward questions. “I’m trans. That’s what the pink, blue and white flag on the door means. I’m also bisexual,”  
“Bisexual,” Bucky echoes, staring down at the tea Steve set in front of him, and tilting his head to one side thoughtfully.  
“Mm-hmm. If that’s gonna be a problem-”  
“Not a problem,” Bucky interrupts. “Not for me,” 

The way he puts the emphasis on _me_ makes Steve wonder. But he doesn’t want to pry. He guesses that if Bucky wants to share, then he’ll find out, in good time. 

“Drink up. It might be a bit hot, but – it’s ginger tea. Good for nausea. My Mom used to make it for me – always set me right, you know?” 

Bucky grips the mug with his metal hand, and sniffs the liquid, as if trying to work out if it’s going to hurt him. Steve’s used to his mistrust by now. If he drinks it, when he didn’t watch Steve make it – well, that’ll be progress, honestly. 

Much to Steve’s surprise, he does: when Steve sips his coffee, Bucky takes a mouthful of tea. He looks thoughtful, as he swallows it; he’s still shaking, a little, but much less than before.  
“Good,” He says, and takes another sip. Steve smiles, feeling like he’s done a good thing, today. Then, unexpectedly, Bucky asks another question:  
“You don’t mind?” He asks, pointing at the syringe with his free hand. Steve shrugs.  
“No. I don’t like it when people call me a girl. This stops that,”  
“People call me a girl,” Bucky repeats. But Steve realises it’s not a simple echo, this time. 

Steve frowns. 

“. . . Sometimes. Don’t remember why,” He adds. Steve’s a little taken aback, by how much he’s talking. Clearly, sleeping at least a little must have done him a lot of good.  
“Are you one?” Steve asks, with raised eyebrows.  
“I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know,” Bucky repeats himself, frowning like it’s a really hard question. “. . . I’m a Sergeant,”  
“Sergeants can be men or women,” Steve points out. Bucky starts.  
“Here?” He asks, as if he doesn’t know – as if he thinks that’s only for other countries. “Can they be both?”  
“You mean like, at the same time?” Steve deciphers. Bucky nods. 

Steve sighs. “Officially, they don’t let trans people in the military. But – they’re in there anyway. So yeah,” 

Bucky nods, his face pensive. He shifts a little, taking another sip, and breathing deeply.  
“The man who came for me. He called you a girl,”  
Steve makes a face of disgust. “Yes. He did,” Bucky mimics his expression.  
“He said the flags . . .” Bucky trails off, frowning down at his drink. He can’t remember. It frustrates him when he can’t remember. He’s always frustrated. Except when Steve reassures him, anyhow.  
“He said to take them down. He said they attract trouble. People don’t like people like me. It wasn’t just a robbery, you see,” Steve continues for him.  
“They hurt you for this?” Bucky asks, and his jaw clenches. “They shouldn’t do that,”  
“You’re right. They shouldn’t,” Steve says, voice low. His fist clenches on the table, fingernails digging into his palm. Bucky notices. He reaches across the table with his metal hand, and prizes Steve’s fingers from their position, because that hurts and Steve shouldn’t hurt. 

He lays Steve’s hand flat on the table; Steve allows him to manipulate his digits. He lays his silently thrumming metal hand down on top of Steve’s skin and bones. It’s warm from holding onto his drink. Steve can't believe the amount of words he's exchanged with Bucky today, let alone this strangely soothing contact. 

“I won’t let that happen again,” Bucky tells him, looking directly into his eyes. Steve gazes right back, seeing the deep blue of a storm at sea; icy cold waters, turbulent and furious. And he knows Bucky means it. But he greets the expression with a small smile.  
“But you’re not always gonna be here, Buck,” He says gently. “I can deal with it. I’ve taken a lot of beatings. You’re gonna want to move on eventually, and that’s okay,” 

Bucky straightens up, but doesn’t move his hand. 

“I'll stay. As long as you want. As long as you require my assistance,” He vows. “As sure as I’m-”

_Hey, let’s hear it for Captain America!_

Bucky frowns, his head jerking to one side: caught in the throes of a memory, taking over, and stopping him in his tracks. “. . . As sure as I’m . . .”  
“Right here, right now?” Steve finishes, wondering if that’s what he was going to say. 

Bucky puts on a brave face because that’s what he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: 
> 
> Bucky denies being Jewish despite it being likely that he is.  
> The Don't Ask, Don't Tell ban on trans people in the military is discussed.  
> Steve injects T in this chapter.  
> Bucky says that he has been called a woman but doesn't clarify whether this was misgendering or preferred.  
> Bucky becomes queasy after eating solid food for the first time, and it is implied that he is sick.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [matthew mcconaughey voice] alright alright alright 
> 
> welcome back!! Thanks for sticking around, and for your nice comments here and on other social media and junk. You guys really get around. I'm proud?? And I love you all. 
> 
> WARNINGS [expanded upon in the second author's note]: this chapter includes paranoia and a panic attack, with more descriptions of the break in that occurred at the shop before the narrative picked up in the first chapter. More slight internalised anti-semitism.

They’re ready in time for the morning’s delivery of fresh flowers: Bucky’s feet feel warm in the soft socks Steve’s lent him, and he feels positively fresh, after the five hours of sleep he managed to get. The rest of the night was consumed by nightmares, and by sickness, but overall, it was much better than any other night he can remember having. 

“Move those ones into the back, will you? Just turn the door handle. Make sure it doesn’t lock behind you, it’s a fire door,” Steve says, face obscured by a few bunches of roses he’s carrying in his arms. Bucky knows he means the stock from a few days ago, which is browning, and sitting in the way of Steve’s new flowers. 

Bucky gathers up the dying flowers, and takes them out back, like he’s instructed: he puts them in the bin for composting out in the alley that runs beside the shop, paying avid attention to his surroundings in case he should come under attack – above him, he spots birds, sitting on the fire escape of the next building; a black cat, stalking its way up to them, as stealthily as possible. But there’s no one around to watch him. No one’s come for him, yet. He shuts the compost bin lid, in case the cat falls in by mistake. 

When Bucky arrives back at the shop, Steve’s making up some mixed flower bunches, in time for the shop to open:  
“Just gotta sort these out. You never know who’s gonna have to bribe their boss with a bunch,” Steve says, with a smile. 

Bucky notices that a white rose has fallen onto the floor: its stem is snapped, and it’s looking forlorn. He reaches out with his gloved hands, and takes it up; snaps the stem even further, so there are no thorns. 

Then, he makes his way over to Steve: he looks up at Bucky, surprised by the proximity, and at Bucky’s face of concentration, as he reaches out towards him. 

He places the rose behind Steve’s ear, and gives him a small smile. He turns away, feeling an odd rush in his face as he does so, and goes to dead-head the flowering plants.  
“. . . Thanks, Buck,” Steve says, sounding a little amused. “You’ve really got a thing for those white roses, huh. Left one on the desk a couple nights ago, remember?”  
“I remember,” Bucky confirms, face still feeling hot.  
“White, like snow. Somethin’ tells me you were posted somewhere cold – maybe Austria - can’t have been the Gulf War . . . Maybe special ops?” 

Bucky just hums, but doesn’t answer. He doesn’t want to think about it, right now. He doesn’t want to speak about it. 

Steve, as he arranges the flowers, starts to sing softly underneath his breath, again: it’s the same song – Bucky remembers the melody. He lets Steve sing on, uninterrupted, for as long as he likes. 

Eventually, he murmurs, “There was a cat. Outside,” 

Steve smiles. “I call him Simon – you know, like the song,” He says, gesturing behind him – Bucky looks, but there’s nothing there. He realises he means the song he was just singing. Bucky still doesn’t know who it’s by.  
“Simon,” Bucky commits to memory.  
“Yeah. I don’t know whose he is – he seems nice enough. Caught him chewing on one of the plants once, though. Had to tell him off big time for that,”  
“No chewing on the plants. Got it,” Bucky says, mimicking his smile. 

Steve looks up, his smile widening slowly. _Did he just make a joke? I think he just made a joke._

He wastes no time in handing Bucky a clipboard, telling him, “Note down how many new bunches we have. I need a stock check. You can fill me in, in a bit, while I sort out the paperwork – gotta get it all in line,” Steve says, rolling his eyes. But Bucky can tell he still very much loves every single aspect of his job. _What did he call it? – His dream. This job is his dream._

They go about their own business in silence, with Steve occasionally humming – he doesn’t have the excuse of giving the plants carbon dioxide, this time, so Bucky can tell he just likes it. The bunches show he’s got a lot of creativity, so it’s not a great stretch that he would like music, too. 

There’s a piercing noise, all of a sudden, and Bucky crouches a little into a defensive stance, searching for the source with wide, calculating eyes – but Steve holds up his hands defensively, making to calm him:  
“The phone! It’s just the phone,” 

_Phone_ . A communications device. He watches as Steve picks it up with one hand, still making a calming gesture at Bucky with the other hand.  
“Wilson-Rogers,” Steve answers, sounding professional – but his Brooklyn accent is still very obvious. He picks up a pair of black, thick-rimmed glasses from the cash desk, and gets ready to write in his ledger. 

But he pauses – he smiles, and says, “How the hell are you?” 

Bucky can tell it’s someone he’s friendly with. He wonders who wouldn’t come around here every day to check on Steve - just in general, but especially after he was attacked so brutally, just for being who he is. _Sam has an excuse. Steve convinced him to leave. He is serving. Who is this person to leave Steve isolated and exposed to further attacks?_

“-Nothing since then. It’s been over a week. I don’t think they’re gonna-” Steve says, and Bucky listens intently. Steve trails off, listening and frowning, until he says. “Well yeah, actually. A few nights ago. Just the police asking questions. Not actually trying to help,” He replies bitterly. 

Bucky knows whoever it is has asked about trouble in the neighbourhood. Perhaps they’re fishing for some kind of information. Perhaps they just care about Steve. But not enough to help protect him. 

“Yeah, well. I’m used to it. Can I help you with any flowers?” Steve asks, maybe a little blunter than before being reminded about his frustrating experiences with the police these last few weeks. _Or longer_ – Bucky has no idea how long the harassment has been going on. 

“Yeah. I can do that. I’ll save a fresh bunch for you, Nat. See you soon,” 

Steve sets the phone down, and sighs.  
“Haven’t seen her in ages,” He murmurs, staring down at the handset thoughtfully.  
Bucky hums curiously.  
“Natasha. A client of mine – a friend, really. She’s always got her finger on the pulse. She knew about the other night,” Steve says, looking up at Bucky, face still pensive. Bucky wonders how much she might know. “She’s always up for a long talk – she remembers all these things about my life. Like – she asks after Sam. She doesn’t even know the guy, but she can’t help herself,” He says, frowning. “Wonder if she’s lonely,” 

Bucky’s face grows serious, and he frowns down at his arms, as he folds them across his chest, almost protective in his stance. 

“You don’t have to talk to her. Just act like you did with Clare. You’ll be fine,” Steve reminds him, and pauses only for a second before reaching out to place a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. His bony fingers remind Bucky of the sharp contrast between them – someone so slender, so apparently _fragile_ , gripping and supporting someone whose body screams _strength_ , and _threat_ . 

“And anyway. She’s not coming til after lunch. I’d usually go out but I don’t wanna leave you here alone, because I don’t think you’ll be comfortable,” Steve says, watching Bucky’s face carefully for a reaction.  
"I can do it," Bucky says incredibly seriously, giving Steve pause.  
“. . . Okay. I might need you in the shop alone for a few moments,” Steve explains, withdrawing his hand. Bucky just nods once. “For now, I’m setting aside a bunch of lilies for Natasha. Gotta take the stamens off them, though – she’s got a cat that comes to her apartment a lot,” Steve adds. 

Bucky raises an eyebrow at him.  
“. . . Cats are allergic to them,” Steve clarifies. 

Bucky smiles, amused by how much thought Steve’s giving to the pet of a woman that _sometimes_ comes to his shop and chats with him about life. He imagines that she’s quite old, if she’s got no one else to talk to, though. He has a very old memory of an old woman – talking to an old woman, sitting with her . . . She had a cat . . . _Maybe two? Three? An old apartment, near to – near to – she had grandkids – they used to-_

Bucky shakes his head, trying to clear it, and screws his eyes shut for a second. His mind feels as if it’s effervescing, just for a moment or two: it’s happened once or twice, now, mostly when he wakes up from his horrifying, abstract dreams. There are always one or two half-revelations, none of which make a lot of sense, but which give him some indescribable idea of who he actually is – not his name, not where he’s from, but _who he is_. At his core. He feels more human, every time. 

“Alright?” Steve asks, busying himself with his lilies again.  
“Remembered an old woman. With grandkids,”  
“Your grandma?” Steve asks, sounding interested. Bucky shakes his head.  
“No. I – don’t . . . I don’t think so,” He whispers, and looks out the window. His eyes settle, not for the first time, on the building across the street. It’s a bunch of apartments, made of browning red bricks covered in filth, with a cast-iron fire escape at the side. Bucky can almost feel the metal in his hands – almost _taste_ it. If he didn’t know this was where he was from before, he’s pretty sure he’d know, now. 

Rather than feeling unsettled by that thought, he finds that he feels unchanged – calm, even. Like he belongs, almost. It might be a new feeling, but it’s a good one. 

Steve glances up at him, and smiles, his freckles dancing across his pale skin in the morning light. The feeling grows. 

-

Steve leaves Bucky in charge of the shop for a few minutes at around midday. He says he’s got to go and get some lunch for them – Bucky feels a little queasy both at the thought of eating, and the thought of letting Steve down while watching the store, but he insists because he wants Steve to be happy. 

He’s not gone long: during his absence, the usual small array of customers come in to peruse the flowers; smell them, brush the petals between their fingers, and relax in the warmth of the store. Many of them don’t buy anything at all: Bucky watches them like a hawk, making sure they don’t take anything they don’t pay for, though. 

A young woman buys a bunch of dark pink flowers from him: their price is marked on them, and she offers him exact change. She smiles at him as she hands the money over; he tries his best to smile back.  
“Not a talker?” She asks, raising an eyebrow. Bucky can’t think what to do, other than shake his head. She laughs, and he musters a smile that's a little larger. 

Steve gets back a few minutes later: he drops a couple of brown bags down on the cash desk, and Bucky eyes them curiously. Steve opens one, and holds up the food he retrieves from it for Bucky to see – and more importantly, to smell. 

It’s some kind of toasted bread: Bucky can see white cheese, and some pink – _fish?_ Fish. Cheese and fish. 

“It’s a bagel,” Steve says brightly. Bucky raises his eyebrows. “I got you one, too. You can just have half, if you’re still feeling – y’know. Delicate,” Steve mentions carefully. Bucky nods. 

Looking around as if he’s going to be caught out at any second, he furtively reaches out for the bag, and peers inside: another bagel. He takes it in one hand, and rips it in half. The smell is strangely alluring – he remembers eating raw fish, at some point, and cheese, but . . . It seems like more than the sum of its parts, somehow. Steve digs in while he’s still considering the food. _It must be safe_ . 

He takes a bite: the texture of the inside is smooth, which is nicely offset by the crunch of the toasted bread. There’s a citrus taste, as well – the salt, the sourness, the taste of the cheese . . . He chews slowly, and shuts his eyes. He’s thinking of candles. He’s thinking of engine oil. He’s thinking of smiles and loving arms. And then – 

“Well? What do you think?”  
Bucky swallows, and opens his eyes: Steve’s staring up at him, hopeful and biting his lip. Bucky reaches up with his free right hand, and wipes a crumb from Steve’s face, causing him to smile. Bucky smiles too, completely unforced, as he says sincerely,  
“Tastes like . . .” He pauses, and thinks for a second more, “. . . Home. Tastes like home,”

Steve’s smile grows slowly wider, and he takes another bite of his bagel. They eat in relative silence, Bucky eating very gradually, while Steve tries to eat his as quickly as possible, just in case someone comes in and needs his help. He’s always on duty – or, well, he’s very much used to working alone. 

“Y’know,” Steve says, drawing Bucky’s gaze. “This is – one of the best things you can get in New York. Get it from my favourite bakery. Run by this family – the Rosenbergs,” 

Bucky remains silent, continuing to eat.  
“. . . You know what kind of food this is, right?” Steve asks. Bucky shrugs with his right shoulder, leaving his heavy left one immobile.  
“Familiar,” He mutters, as he finishes his half. He wraps the other half up on Steve’s suggestion, but saves it for if he’s hungry later, too.  
“It’s from a Jewish bakery,” Steve says tentatively, remembering how Bucky reacted last time he insinuated that he might be Jewish. 

Bucky looks up at him and stares. Hard.  
“They’ve been around for a while. A pretty long while, actually. Maybe you had one of these before? – Maybe not from them specifically, but maybe from someone else – but in the city, because who does bagels like New York, right?” Steve says, talking a little too quickly, pinned by Bucky’s gaze. 

“. . . They own a shop, now,” Bucky says softly. Steve frowns.  
“You know them?” He asks, feeling his heart rate pick up. _Did I just find something out?_  
But Bucky blinks hard, and tells him:  
“No. I mean that Jews can – that Jewish people . . . That it’s . . .” He bites his lip hard, looking down at his left arm. “They’re okay. They’re safe,”  
“Why wouldn’t they be?” Steve asks slowly. Bucky shakes his head hard, without looking up. Steve sighs, but tries again. 

“Listen, they’re – fine. It’s fine. This neighbourhood has a lot of Jewish people. It’s a great community – they help homeless people at Temple, they have fundraisers for charities – they’re all fine. They're great, and they're safe – more or less. As safe as anyone is in this city. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?” Steve asks cautiously. 

Bucky looks up from underneath his brow at Steve, who’s looking more than a little out of his depth talking about this. He shakes his head.  
“Like I said before – it’s alright, if you’re Jewish. That’s okay. It’s great, that you know something about you . . . And that I know what you like to eat,” He adds on, only half-joking. Bucky nods in agreement, though. 

Finally, he nods more decisively: Steve realises he’s not going to say it out loud – something or someone has literally put the fear of God into him about being Jewish, and Steve can’t imagine who or what, in 2016, could do that. He adds it to the long list of things that don’t quite make sense about Bucky. 

“When you’re done eating, you can help me shift some stock. We’re having a sale of these bunches. People like to buy flowers on their way home from work, and these couple of ones-” He waves a hand at a few bunches which, to Bucky, look the picture of vitality and beauty, “-are just about to go out. They'll make someone happy for a day,” 

Bucky takes a deep breath, stashes his food in the front pocket of his apron, tells Steve: “I’m ready now,” He pauses, for a long second, taking Steve’s hand. He raises his eyebrows, until Bucky says, “. . . Thank you, Steve,”

-

Natasha arrives when Bucky’s just finished learning how to repot small, growing bulbs into larger pots: Steve is a very patient teacher, though he claims that he learned everything he knows from Sam’s Mom. Apparently she was a wonderful botanist. 

Steve’s waving off an older woman he’s been talking to for the past twenty minutes, reassuring her that he’ll be _fine_ , the break-in was more than a week ago now, and yes, he guesses he _does_ have a strong man to protect him now – not that he’s not a man, but he’s always been a bit – small, a bit _dainty_ , hasn’t he? 

She tries hard. Bucky watches Steve be patient with her, too, but in another kind of way. 

Bucky’s elbows deep in mud when Natasha walks in, immediately addressing Steve:  
“Rogers!” 

Steve looks up from the cash draw, and smiles broadly: Bucky watches as Natasha goes in for a kiss on the cheek stoically, though he doubts he’d be able to look away if he tried.  
“Nat – come for red roses?” Steve asks with a small grin.  
“Only if I can get a discount,” She counters. “No, actually – I just wanted to see how you were holding up. Looks like you’re all healed up, at least,” She observes, taking in his overall appearance – yes, there are no visible bruises now, as long as you don’t look too hard.  
“Yeah. Would be much better if they hadn’t left me with the bill for getting the glass in my windows replaced. I’m living off soup for months,” Steve laments. 

Bucky stands up a little straighter. He doesn’t want Steve to feel upset, or live in unpleasant circumstances. Steve catches his worried expression. 

“Just kidding,” He adds, smiling at Bucky, who immediately relaxes. Natasha turns around, frowning, and acknowledges Bucky’s presence for the first time.  
“Oh,” She says, her tone bright, and her expression friendly – but there’s something about her eyes that lets him know that he’s being analysed, at that moment. Something calculating, and dark. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there,” She says, reaching out towards him. He recoils slightly, putting his weight on his back foot.  
“Sorry – that’s Bucky. My new, um – employee,” Steve explains.  
“Nice to meet you, Bucky,” She says. He reaches out with his right hand, while slipping his left behind him, in case her intelligent gaze settles for too long on his left arm, and works out what’s underneath. _She can’t possibly know already, can she?_

She’s not like the other customers. She asks questions. 

“Oh really?” She asks, sounding interested. She looks down at Bucky’s hand, and laughs a little. “I’m sorry, you’re a little – muddy,” She excuses herself. Bucky withdraws his hand, shaking his head at his own behaviour. “How long have you been working here, Bucky?” She asks. 

He pauses, looking to Steve. They haven’t agreed on what to tell others, yet. It hasn’t come up yet. 

“Well he just came and asked a couple of weeks back. I figured, with Sam still gone . . .” Steve trails off. Natasha gives Bucky a last look, and turns back to Steve.  
“Yes. It must be much better now. Have you heard anything from Sam, yet?” 

Steve shakes his head. “Not since his last mission. He and Riley were on some . . . Covert thing. I don’t know. He doesn’t tell me. Says it’s confidential – even if I ask a lot,” Steve tells her, pursing his lips.  
“So he’s pretty committed to keeping things private?” Natasha asks curiously. Steve smiles.  
“Yeah. His boss must be proud of him,” Steve says, ducking his head. If Bucky isn’t mistaken, he senses a hint of bitterness in his voice. Perhaps Steve’s a little sore, for not having seen Sam all too much, recently. 

“So Bucky does what Sam used to do around this place,” Natasha says, looking around, before commenting, “It does seem a lot tidier. Loads more organised,”  
“Thank you,” Steve replies, winking in thanks to Bucky when her back is turned. Bucky feels blood rush to his face, and he swallows, hiding his small smile as he turns away. “The only difference with Bucky is that I teach him – like Sam used to teach me,”  
“Sam's a natural leader?” She surmises. Bucky frowns down at the soil his hands are now buried in, once again. Nothing odd registers with Steve:  
“Sure. Learned most of what I know from him, in terms of keeping the flowers alive. Everything else is from the books my Mom bought me as a kid – and a terminal obsession with googling plants,” Steve admits. Natasha laughs lightly.  
“We’ve all got our vices. I know when I fall through that Wikipedia wormhole, I can’t stop myself,” Natasha says. “What about you, Bucky? Any vices?” 

Bucky turns back to her, his eyebrows raised: he freezes, pinned by her gaze, staring at her expectant face. She almost glows in the afternoon sunlight seeping in through the windows, but in a different way to the way Steve does. The red plants that surround her seem to fade and swim with her hair, as his vision deteriorates with panic. _What can I say? Vice. Addiction. Drugs. Chemicals. Poison. Stitches. Scalpels, blood, cauterising tools, bandages, bruises, freezer burn-_

“Bagels,” Bucky says seriously. 

Natasha laughs. He wasn’t expecting that. He tries to cover his surprise with a smile that ends up as a grimace. Even Steve laughs, a little, despite the fact he just watched an internal struggle play out over Bucky’s face.  
“You got me there. I do love that bakery a couple blocks away. Run by the-”  
“Rosenbergs. Yeah,” Steve says, beaming, as she turns back to him. “We just got lunch from there today. My treat,”  
“Someone’s a good boss,” Natasha says with a smile. “What about Sam? Any vices?” 

Steve considers it for a long moment – while Bucky frowns again, warning bells going off once more in his brain. Perhaps this is how people relate to one another, in this decade. Perhaps this is normal. Perhaps it’s perfectly innocent, and he’s the one that’s strange, here. Steve doesn’t seem to be worried, after all. 

“. . . Nope. Not Sam. His only addiction is running, I guess. He loves running. He used to take me out most mornings, before sunrise. We’d run for blocks and blocks, til we had to be back for the shop. Never did any good for my muscles. Or my back. Running with scoliosis isn’t fun – but I always made him take me with him,” Steve says, with a sad smile, casting his gaze to the floor.  
“I’m sorry,” Natasha says, more softly; she reaches out to Steve, and Bucky starts forward, until he sees that she’s just placing a soft hand on his shoulder. She rubs his arm, and he smiles back, grateful for the comforting gesture. 

Bucky’s face remains stony, as he tries to hide his suspicion and misgivings. 

“Things haven’t been easy for you, have they?” Natasha asks Steve in a voice so gentle that Bucky almost doesn’t hear it. He sees Steve shake his head, his gaze still lingering on the cash desk, where his hands worry sluggishly at one another. Bucky turns back to his work, still listening intently. If she thinks he can’t hear them, she’s sorely mistaken. 

“I heard there was more . . . _Trouble_ , recently. The police looking for an escaped convict. Is that right?” She asks. Bucky’s movements slow; he clutches a small bulb in his left hand, nearly crushing it with his grip absent-mindedly, as he listens in.  
“Yeah. They wanted to come in. I said, not til you’ve arrested the guys that attacked me. I’m not letting anyone in,” Steve says.  
“But you let Bucky in,” She murmurs. Bucky licks his lips, waiting in fearful anticipation for what Steve will say next.  
“. . . He needed my help. Desperately,” Steve asserts. “You don’t turn down people who have nothing and no one else,” 

He hears a sigh, but it’s not Steve’s. 

“Alright. I hope it works out, with him,” She says, taking a step back. Bucky looks over his shoulder at her, as she says, “I should get going. I’m on my way to an assignment with work – they’ve got me reporting on the community – you know, local crimes that affect local people. They want to see if anyone’s seen the _escaped prisoner_ – nothing so far,” 

Bucky keeps his eyes on her dark blue eyes, shining bright just like her hair, as they fix on him.  
“Nothing at all. But you’ll tell me if you see anything suspicious, won’t you?” She says. 

She’s staring so intently at Bucky as she says it, that he’s convinced she knows. _Escaped prisoner. A man turning up on Steve’s doorstep, suddenly wanting shelter and employment. She’s not stupid. But she’s not trying to kill him, or drop him to take back to Hydra._

So he just stares back as blankly as he can, drawing a deep breath, and standing as tall as he can. She observes his change of posture, perhaps mistaking it as a stance designed to defend himself – no. It’s a stance for defending Steve. Perhaps from people like _her_.

He’s not the only one with a secret, here. There’s more said between them, at that moment, than there has been so far. 

“Goodbye both of you,” She says, dragging her gaze away from Bucky, and towards Steve with a wave, before taking her leave. Steve waves her off, before giving a contented sigh. 

“Biggest gossip I know,” Steve says, shaking his head with a smile. “Bigger than Sam,”  
“She wanted to know a lot about him,” Bucky reports. Steve snorts, a little.  
“Half the women in Brooklyn have asked me way more than that. Sam’s kind of . . . I don’t know. He’s a hit with women. He’s a hit with men, too. And everyone else. Why wouldn’t he be?” He chuckles. “He’s the best man I know,”

Bucky pauses, frowning for a second, before taking his muddy gloves off, and setting them down on the side beside the soil he's been working in. He tucks his hands into the pocket of his apron, and makes a face like he’s solving a difficult equation, as he says,  
"You’re the best man I know,”  
Steve smiles. “I’m the _only_ man you know,” 

Bucky shakes his head, vehemently sure: “No. No, you’re not. The men from before-”  
“-Aren’t men. They’re monsters. If they’ve done what I think they’ve done to you . . .” Steve trails off, his eyes lingering on Bucky’s left arm, thankfully obscured during the preceding conversation, for just a moment. “If they’ve done even a tenth of that, they’re not even human,” 

“Not even human,” Bucky says, removing his hands from the pocket of his apron, and clenching his fists at his sides. “N-not even human,” He repeats. Steve frowns, watching as Bucky appears to _glitch_.  
“Buck?” He asks. But Bucky just stares at the floor, shaking a little. There’s a blankness in his eyes: like Bucky’s gone, and some haunting memory has taken up residence in his hollow mind. 

Steve approaches carefully, but Bucky doesn’t move: Steve notices his mouth twitching, forming around a few small words. _Not even human_.  
“I shouldn’t have said that,” Steve says, half to himself. “Bucky?”

Bucky stares down at the floor, head tilted to one side, completely immersed in some horrible recollection. 

Steve curses himself even as he does it: he raises his hands to Bucky’s face, and cups it in his slender fingers, gripping softly, gently, so as not to hurt him, or startle him.  
Slowly, Bucky’s eyes roll up to meet his, though they don’t shine; they’re dull, and only slowly responsive.  
“Bucky? – Can you talk to me?” Steve asks fearfully. Bucky swallows; he licks his lips, eyes alternating visibly between looking into Steve’s right eye, and his left eye. His mouth hangs slightly open.  
“I’m here?” Bucky asks – it doesn’t sound like the start of a sentence, but that’s the only part Steve can hear.  
“You’re here, buddy – you’re here,” Steve says, still gripping Bucky’s face.  
“I’m human,” Bucky says, and it sounds like a question.  
“As human as I am,” Steve says. “And – I’m human. No matter how many times people told me I was a freak, and a monster,” He says. 

That seems to catch Bucky’s attention: he blinks a couple of times. So Steve continues. 

“The men that came in the night. They called me all sorts of things – things I’ve heard since I was in school, right up to the here and now. But they’re wrong. They don’t know me. I’m a person. I bleed red, just like the rest. But I’ll never bleed for them. Not ever. And neither will you,” Steve reassures Bucky. “. . . You’re human. You’re here, right now, with me, in the shop. Look, see – rosemary,” Steve says, pointing at a sprig on the shelf beside Bucky’s head. 

“. . . R-Rosemary,” Bucky whispers, wet eyes observing the plant on Steve's command.  
“For remembrance. Yeah,” Steve says, smiling reassuringly. “Smells damn good, too,” 

It’s then that he registers that Bucky's hands have been holding onto his hips, for a couple of minutes: not gripping tight, but just sitting there, anchoring for support; holding him close, but not forcing him into position. Just – reaching out, and touching him. 

Steve looks down at his hands; he releases Bucky’s face, and Bucky shivers. He places his hands on top of Bucky’s hands, stroking one set of rough, scarred knuckles. After a moment, he takes hold of Bucky’s fingers, and kisses his knuckles – on both hands – grounding him the only way he _knows_ works. Sam used to do this for him, when his mental health got very acutely bad, triggered by something; when he was coming down off that feeling, and he felt like his body wasn’t his own, and was conspiring against him; when the dysphoria got so bad that he didn’t think he could ever feel anything good, or positive, ever again. 

It works. Bucky’s transfixed on Steve’s lips, as he presses feather-light kisses to calloused skin and shining metal alike. Finally, he raises his head again, setting Bucky’s arms down at his sides. 

They look at one another for what feels like minutes, but in actuality is nothing more than seconds: Steve, with a searching, worried look, trying to find out if Bucky will be okay; Bucky with an awestruck, besotted gaze, feeling something healthy, and warm, and _loving_ grow in his stomach. Something stronger than the black, twisting creatures that usually live there, squeezing and strangling until he can’t think. He feels them in his brain, too. They go quiet and watch Steve, sometimes. It’s only then that he realises they’re just his own thoughts, transformed into something horrible. 

But that wasn’t his doing. That was all them. He didn’t choose to be this way, but he is – only, Steve doesn’t seem to care. 

But then Steve walks away, attention taken by a customer who’s out of breath and needing to urgently buy a bunch of flowers for a forgotten anniversary. Her wife will be so angry if they’re not red roses. Steve’s got plenty of those. She doesn’t have to worry. 

_No one has to worry around Steve_ , Bucky thinks. _As long as they’re good._

_And Steve doesn’t have to worry around anyone, either. As long as I’m around, no one’s going to hurt him. Not the way I was hurt. No one’s going to hurt him at all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EXPANDED WARNINGS 
> 
> Bucky is paranoid about one of Steve's other friends, and thinks that she's going to do something bad to them because she's asking a lot of questions. 
> 
> Bucky has a dissociative moment where he remembers being treated as if he wasn't human by Hydra. Steve explains that people have treated him like that, too, in reference to the attack on him and his shop that happened a few weeks back. 
> 
> Once again Bucky isn't completely receptive to the thought that he's Jewish, and retains wartime thoughts regarding Jewish ppl i.e. he does't know that for the most part they aren't being killed anymore.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doot doot doot thanks for sticking around pals, please read these warnings 
> 
> WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: casual ableist language, some violence, homophobia and transphobia (including slurs and misgendering). Some of Bucky's more horrible memories are also explored in this chapter (greater descriptions are available in the author's note at the end of the chapter if you're worried about being triggered)

Weeks pass. Bucky talks a little more, loses a little less time: he still loses some, falling into a deep stupor that Steve has to rouse him from as gently as possible. Steve can’t possibly predict what sets him off, but when he’s triggered, they both know it. 

Bucky falls silent. He might crush whatever is in his left hand, if not his right, too. He might drop something. He usually shakes, clenches his jaw, goes a little pale; his usually red-bitten lips bloodless, and his eyes either fixed on one point, or darting around, depending on what kind of attack he’s having. 

Steve’s learned the difference between when he’s dissociating, and when he’s having a panic attack, over a couple of days. It’s certainly been a crash course, and he’s no expert, but he’s not studying for a qualification, here – he’s just got to know what’s normal for Bucky, and when he should be worried; what to do, and not to do. 

It’s not perfect. He doesn’t get it right all the time, by any stretch of the imagination. But Bucky seems extremely grateful for his efforts – _seems_ , because he still doesn’t speak, all too much. He tries to participate in conversations – he gestures, and makes faces, and laughs – but he’s no conversationalist. However, he has been experimenting with touch. 

Steve has a strange attitude to touch. He’s experienced such little affection since Sam left: no cuddling, no sprawling hugs for warmth and comfort, not even so much as a high five. But with Bucky, it . . . Seems to be a learning process, for both of them. Steve lets Bucky take the lead with how much contact he’d like, and he tries to accept it. Again, it’s not perfect, and Steve has to deny him sometimes – but he takes great care to tell Bucky, _just not right now. I don’t want to right now_. And Bucky will withdraw like Steve has burned him. 

His touch is exploratory: a hand on his waist; one on his shoulder, or on top of his hand, during breakfast. Of course, he won’t say anything – he won’t comment, or even make eye contact, a lot of the time, unless Steve has told him to stop. Then his expression is _very_ apologetic. But if Steve hasn’t been touched with affection since Sam left, then Bucky’s not touched anyone . . . Possibly in years. And by the wary look on his face when Steve hesitantly initiates contact, Steve can tell that no one’s touched him with any sort of care in his living memory. 

Both of them are used to beatings, and touching without consent: Steve notes that it’s probably been a part of their daily lives, what with the abuse he receives for being trans, and – _whatever_ has happened to Bucky, in the past. Neither of them enjoy it, but it’s been a fact of life for so long that they can’t help but fear the worst, even when they touch one another. 

But they’re getting better. Bucky’s nowhere near what Steve would think was _normal_ – whatever that means, in the wild world he’s been plunged into, of late. But he seems more content. Healthier, perhaps. 

He thinks as much as he watches Bucky trim a small thicket, at the back of the shop, sunbeams glinting off the tiny part of his metal arm that’s visible, currently, with his sleeves rolled up. Steve can hear him humming a song Steve listened to this morning: he’s feeling Dylan, right now. It seemed appropriate, because for Steve – for _both_ of them, actually – the times are changing. Bucky listened intently, to that one. Steve thinks he might have liked it. 

There’s more colour in his cheeks, now: after he ate that half a bagel, he didn’t eat for the rest of the day, aside from water Steve strongly suggested that he drink, with a watchful eye. But over the last couple of days, Steve’s helped him bring up his calorie consumption. He hasn’t altered in mass, weirdly enough, but he doesn’t look anywhere near as sickly. 

Or maybe that’s just because Steve’s seeing a different side to him – one that’s . . . _Receptive_. Affectionate. Caring, and attentive – a good listener, confirming as much whenever he hints at small details from Steve’s life, wanting to hear about them over meals. He chips in a little bit with what he thinks he knows about himself, but he seems to be genuinely enraptured with what Steve has to say about himself. It’s weird, having someone listen to him, without trying to mock him; invalidate him, or dismiss him. It’s something he hasn’t had since Sam – and before that, his Mom. 

Steve’s brought out of his daydreaming staring at Bucky – _his strong arms, his tender look of concentration, his dexterity with the secateurs_ – when the door opens. He quickly stands up straight, ceasing to lean his face on his fist, and smiling brightly. His smile isn’t returned by the man who faces him. 

“My wife didn’t like your flowers,” The man grunts.  
“What?” Steve asks, a little dazed, in a way he doesn’t want to admit. Across the store, Bucky looks up.  
“I said my wife hates your damn flowers. They gave her allergies,” He replies, his face reddening.  
“I’m sorry, sir,” Steve says, frowning at the concept of flowers _giving someone an allergy_. “I hope she’s alright,”  
“No, she’s not – she’s pissed,” The man tells him, placing his clenched fists on the cash desk. Steve’s eyes linger on them for a moment; he clenches his jaw slightly, as he looks up.  
“I’m sorry – if you bring the old bunch back, you can exchange it for something else, if you want?” He asks. Sure, it’s not his problem that this guy gave his wife the wrong kind of flowers, but he’s not about to leave him with nothing.  
“Just give me my money back!” The man says, already pounding a fist on the cash desk.  
“Do you have a receipt?” Steve asks, raising an eyebrow.  
“No, of course I don’t, idiot,” The man curses. Steve flinches at his language, more than the volume of his voice. 

Steve swallows. “Then I can’t really do anything. I’m sorry,” He insists, his expression growing stormier, after his initial fear.  
“Sorry? – just give me my money back right now,” The man growls, looming over Steve.  
“I can’t do that,” Steve says, standing his ground. “I want you to leave,” He adds, cheeks growing flushed with anger, as the man draws himself to his full height, trying to intimidate him. Steve’s fists clench, and he gets ready to take a beating. It’s about time for his next one, he figures.  
“Leave?” The man yells. “Not til I’ve got my money - $50, or I’m calling the police,”  
“The bunches are $10!” Steve protests. 

The man’s hand shoots forward, grabbing at Steve’s collar – but before he can do it, there’s a hand clenching around his neck, stopping in his track and choking him. Steve’s eyes, shut while he braced for impact before, are now wide with shock, as he sees Bucky’s left hand gripping onto the customer’s throat. 

“Buck!” He hisses. Bucky’s eyes, dark and vicious where they glare up at the customer from beneath his brow line, immediately lighten, as if he’s been snapped from some kind of trance – he removes his hand from the customer’s neck, and he coughs, rubbing it with fear in his eyes, as he looks at Bucky’s face, still very much wrought with hatred toward him, as a man who would have hurt Steve. 

“Don’t come back here. Get out,” Steve says to him. 

The man leaves immediately. Bucky’s hands, where they fall to his sides, feel useless; heavy, and clumsy. He disappointed Steve. His expression is deeply apologetic, as he dares to look into Steve’s eyes. 

But Steve’s not angry: he reaches for Bucky’s face with both hands, cupping his cheeks.  
“You don’t have to fight for me like that,” Steve tells him.  
Bucky bites his lip, and closes his eyes, as Steve’s slender thumbs stroke along the lines of his cheekbones. 

“I get it. He was gonna try and hurt me. You wanted to help,” Steve tells him. Bucky’s eyes open, and he licks his lips. “I can handle crap like that by myself,” He assures Bucky.  
“I know,” Bucky murmurs. Steve’s eyebrows raise, perhaps in surprise at what he said, or maybe because he spoke at all. “. . . But you don’t have to,” 

Steve can’t know how much his sad smile makes Bucky’s heart leap in his chest: a part of himself that he didn’t even know existed, just weeks ago, _sings_ for Steve. Bucky hears its music all the time, when Steve’s around. Bucky didn’t know any melodies until he found this place. 

Steve pulls his head gently down, and stands on his tiptoes, to give Bucky a small kiss to his forehead: his skin is slightly warmer than his own, but not clammy; he doesn’t seem sickly. In fact, he seems the very _opposite_ , when Steve next sees his bashful face. 

Funny, how something as simple as a chaste kiss can build Bucky up from a menacing killer, ready to murder anyone who hurt Steve in a second, to a blushing young man, suddenly decades younger in spirit. 

Bucky’s right hand ducks into his apron pocket, and takes out a tiny bunch of flowers, tied together with the brown string they usually use to guide the growth of creeping vines and tall flowers, at the back of the shop: it has light blue, pink and white flower offcuts in it. Steve’s harsh little intake of breath is all the go-ahead Bucky needs, before he fastens it securely to Steve’s name badge. 

“. . . Pride,” Bucky says – Steve taught him about that, only a few days after they met. It was one of the first things he learned about the world he now finds himself in, in fact.  
“Yeah,” Steve agrees, though he sounds a little awestruck that Bucky would take the time to make the sprig for him. 

He watches Bucky walk away, and back to his work, seemingly decompressing with a large, emotional sigh, as he considers all the things that he’s already let Bucky become to him; all the things Bucky can be, and what he might do next. 

If it’s anything like what he’s done so far, then Steve’s going to fall for him even further. But – even with Bucky’s physical and mental issues, which have admittedly taken their toll on both of them – Steve doesn’t find that he cares one bit. 

-

Despite Steve’s calming words and presence, Bucky feels a little on edge all day: he didn’t enjoy his small foray back into being a mindless, violent killer, who acted on autopilot rather than making a measured and rational decision. But it was more that he _didn’t_ think, than that he couldn’t think, today – he just lost it, at the thought of someone trying to hurt the only person he gives a damn about in this world. 

When he’s lying in bed, that night, there’s more noise outside than usual. He turns over to face the wall, planting his left hand against his ear, muffling the other with the pillow, and silently counts the days: _Friday. It’s Friday night. Fridays are the worst. Too much intoxication. Too many drugs_. Bucky would like it if he never came across another drug again in his life – well, except the ones Steve needs. Because Steve needs them. 

He flinches as he hears a bottle smash outside: his eyes open with a start, as he realises that was in the alleyway directly beside the shop, where they keep their compost, and their garbage – _the cat_. The cat spends a lot of time there. He’s fed it scraps of his food, before now. It’s soft and it’s calm and it doesn’t deserve to be hurt. 

Neither does the shop, or its owner. He grits his teeth, and sits up, peering out of his window, which is directly above the alleyway. 

_Five men_. There are men gathered there, slurring to one another, yelling and posturing. They are a pack of wild dogs and they will hurt Steve. They are wolves and Bucky has fought wolves. 

He pulls on his jeans and a shirt from the floor ( _messy room, messy hair_ , Steve’s said, but he smiled when he said it, and he touched Bucky’s hair, Bucky loves that when it’s him) and gets up quietly: he ventures out into the hallway, and checks in on Steve’s room. He’s dozing, his soft breaths the most relaxing and steadfast thing Bucky could imagine in the world – perhaps not physically, what with Steve’s asthma, but emotionally, for Bucky. A sleeping Steve is a relaxed Steve. Steve needs to relax more. 

He eyes the baseball bat, but decides against it. He doesn’t want to start something again, right now. Not after earlier. He'll just have to - to _speak_ with the men. 

He makes his way to the side door, creeping up beside it: when he sees silhouettes against the blind that covers it, he balks. They’re pitch black, flickering in the dim light from the street like fire, but infinitely more dangerous: within seconds, he realises he can't talk to them. Within seconds, he’s convinced. The way they’re lingering – _around their home – the way they found them – I was too hasty, too emotional, I showed my hand – the way they’ve come for them, in the night – when they know they’re both asleep._

_What do you think Hydra will do, if they get hold of Steve? How much do you think they’ll make you watch?_

His mind whites out with something that feels more intense than rage – _it’s fear, the fear of losing the one thing he truly, genuinely adores in this world. The one thing he refuses to lose, through some mechanism he could have put a stop to._

_Don’t worry, Steve. They’re not getting you, too._

It’s a foolhardy move to unlock the door and confront them. But that’s exactly what he does. 

They seem a little taken aback by his arrival: he hears one of them laugh.  
“Whoa,” One of them says simply, taken aback by Bucky’s stature, heaving and tense, as he stares them down.  
“You’re new, aren’t you? – Where’s the little fag? You know, the fairy who usually runs this place?” One man says aggressively, as if there’s some bad blood: he’s clearly very drunk, and violent with it, but that’s no excuse. _No one gets to call Steve any of those names._

But they’re not done yet. 

“I think we disturbed the local wildlife,” One of them jokes, smacking his friend on the shoulder. They all laugh.  
“Yeah, he’s probably got him tied up in the basement!” 

Bucky swallows, and looks away from the man who said that: _cold cement. Clinking chains. Metal chairs and metal tables. Compliance will be rewarded. Resistance will be punished. Are you ready to comply?_

 _Sensory deprivation_. Bucky senses movement in the dark – _he can still see in the dark, they didn’t know that, even deep underground, all alone, he can see tallies left by others on the wall, scratched in by nails and bones_ – the black cat is lingering on the fire escape, meandering silently back and forth, agitated, because it can’t get down without encountering even more danger. The both of them are stuck, at that moment in time. 

“I thought it was a girl?”  
“I could care less,” 

Bucky’s breaths grow harsher, as he looks between them with dark eyes. He hears the inside doorknob creek, because he’s gripping it way too hard. He’s crushing it. He lets go. 

“What the fuck are you looking at, freak?” One of the men yells, stepping nearer: emboldened when Bucky doesn’t immediately strike him, the rest of them start to approach him, too.  
“He ain’t denying any of it,” One slurs, and a few of them snigger. The scent of the alcohol on their breath intensifies, as they draw nearer.  
“It’s no use – both of them are fucking stupid,” The most aggressive one says, and smacks Bucky on the chest. But he smacks to the left. 

And there’s a clanging sound. He’s hit the metal covering some of Bucky’s torso. 

That’s when Bucky springs into action. 

It’s even more foolhardy for Bucky to lunge at the first of them completely unarmed, than it was to come out here in the first place: but then again, he’s never unarmed. He is a weapon. He’s a fist. But he’s not _their_ fist, like he was told so many times. 

They yell and they all go for him at once, just like he thought they would. It’s loud, but there’s no gunfire. It’s brutal, but there’s no coordination. It’s a fight, but it’s more like a _massacre._

“Bucky?” 

He’s shivering, standing over them all: there’s blood everywhere, and smashed beer bottles, and one or two are trying to crawl away. The others are out cold – _but breathing, oh, thank God, they’re breathing_ – but Bucky’s shirt is torn, and he’s covered in their blood. It streaks across his face, stains his jeans, and– 

“You – your feet,” Steve points out, his sleep-addled mind unable to form a more persuasive argument for Bucky to put down the garbage bin lid, and come back inside. 

But then he catches sight of one of the men. The angriest one. 

“. . . Him,” Steve says, his lip curling. “I remember him – and that one,” Steve says, pointing at another. Bucky just nods.  
“They came back to hurt you. They said-”

Bucky stops, still shaking, and now staring at the ground. He doesn’t have the heart to recount their bile – especially when one of the only small mercies of this situation is that Steve didn’t have to hear it in the first place. And that they won’t be coming back. 

“You did a better job than the police have done,” Steve says, forcing a concerned smile, though he’s worried as hell about Bucky right now. He reaches out a hand, arm swamped by a huge, oversized jumper sleeve. “. . . Please, Buck. Come back inside,” 

Bucky doesn’t react, for a moment: his fingers, stiff and clinging to the now-dented bin lid – _any port in a storm, any weapon he could get his hands on_ – tighten momentarily, tense, like they don’t believe it’s over. But it is. Steve is safe. Steve is unharmed. Bucky’s done the one thing he resolved to do, and now he may rest. Now he can be put under again - _no, that's not right-_

The bin lid clatters to the ground, and Bucky reaches out, tentatively taking Steve’s hand in his metal hand. Steve’s smile grows more genuine, as he says, “Kind of like this version of a knight in shining armour,”  
“. . . Didn’t want me to fight for you,” Bucky reminds him. “Said I wouldn’t bleed for them,”

Steve wraps an arm around his waist, when he fails to reach to wrap one around his shoulders.  
“Those men were out to hurt me – everyone like me. You did the right thing, this time. That’s the thing about you,” Steve murmurs – Bucky looks down, and into his blue eyes, as they step into the building, again. “You always know the right thing, even if you can’t remember,” 

Bucky just blinks at him, and hopes that it’s true. 

-

It takes about an hour for Steve to help Bucky recover physically, at least, from the fight. 

Steve first of all makes sure the door is locked tight, checking the front of the shop, too; making sure that Bucky sees that they’re safe, and secure. Then he leads Bucky to the bathroom, runs a shallow bath, and encourages him to sit on the side with his feet soaking in the warm water. Bucky, having only ever showered, isn’t wild about the sensation of any part of his body being submerged: his breathing comes a little shorter, as Steve gently encourages him in, reminding him that the water is only a few inches deep. _What’s the worst that could happen?_

Bucky had just blinked at him. He’s killed with less water. He’s suffered with more. He knows what it is to drown and be drowned. Rising water is not his friend. 

Once it stopped rising, he was able to settle, a little: focus on the heat of the water, and the gentle lapping at his ankles; listen to Steve humming, in between yawns. Steve had used a flannel to wipe the dirt from his ankles, and to clean off Bucky’s knuckles; wipe the scratches and the grazes on his face, with the addition of some antiseptic. Men that disgusting could be covered in anything. 

Bucky sits still for Steve, enjoying his touch: the way he does things that he knows Bucky would easily be able to do for himself doesn’t remind him at all of the condescending, controlling manipulation of his body that they put him through. It’s tender, and it’s kind, and Steve genuinely cares. Not for selfish reasons, but because – because he likes Bucky. He seems to enjoy his presence, and his manner, and – and touching his body, however small those touches might be. He doesn’t want anything from Bucky at all. He just wants him to be okay. 

Steve takes a long time to inspect his feet, which are covered in cuts; remove tiny bits of glass, with the help of some tweezers and some antiseptic fluid. Bucky sits through it without flinching, despite the fact Steve pulls some chunks of glass the size of lego bricks from the soles of his feet. He didn’t even let on that he was walking on glass, before; doesn’t show any sign of discomfort, now that they’re removed, either. His pain threshold is uncomfortably high, Steve finds. 

It’s 4 am before Bucky’s sitting on the toilet lid, drying off his feet with one of Steve’s towels, while Steve watches leaning against the doorframe: Bucky doesn’t mind him staring. He’s used to being stared at – but in particular, Steve’s gaze is brought about by concern, and . . . Maybe something else Bucky cannot identify. But it’s something good. He’s not being tested right now. He won’t be put on ice. He won’t be locked into the machine. 

He blinks, stilling for a second, as he remembers the machine: he would be completely immobilised – upright, off the ground – frozen in place, eyes shut tight and mouth muzzled closed, maintained with needles and tubes and gasses – but it wasn’t like _sleep. It was just standby. Containment, confinement, storage, torture-_

“Buck?” Steve asks, a little sleepily. Bucky starts moving again, swallowing and dismissing the thought.  
“Remembering,” Bucky mumbles. Steve bows his head, looking at the ground. That’s what Bucky says when he doesn’t want to tell Steve about whatever it was he remembered – just a nonspecific explanation of his strange behaviour. Steve thinks it’s because he doesn’t trust him to hear about the memories. 

In reality, he’s protecting Steve from their awful truths. He cannot burden him even further. 

Steve leads him from the bathroom, back to his bedroom – but he slows to a stop a little short of Bucky’s room, beside his own room.  
“. . . Are you going to be okay?” Steve asks. Bucky nods once. Steve shakes his head.  
“No – no, I mean – really,” Steve says, his tired eyes full of worry. Bucky licks his lips. “You just – you hurt a lot of people. You’re still shaking,” 

Bucky looks down at his flesh arm: it’s true. He didn’t notice. He thought he was just cold because he’d done his job, the target was gone, and now it’s time for him to go back into cryo-

He sobs. Steve gasps a little at the sound; it shocks Bucky too, and he shuts his mouth tight, straining to not let out any more noise.  
“Shh – you can say – you can let it out,” Steve tells him gently. Bucky shakes his head frantically. “You can trust me, Buck – trust me!” Steve insists, though his tone is still soft; pleading. 

He doesn’t expect Bucky to scoop him up into his arms: press the length of his body to his own, shaking Steve with his own tremors, he hooks his head over Steve’s shoulder, spine bent to allow Steve to rest his head on his shoulder too. Steve stands on tiptoes, blushing a little with the unexpected contact, but not complaining one bit. Bucky is so warm, so soft, and he smells like antiseptic and soap – plus he smells like Bucky, on top of that. 

“Don’t want to hurt you,” Bucky murmurs; Steve can’t hear him sob, because he shuts his mouth tight, but he can feel them through Bucky’s built, broad body.  
“You won’t. You wouldn’t,” Steve says. 

He doesn’t understand that Bucky means, _these memories could hurt you. They’re dangerous. I’m dangerous. I’m sorry for bringing this to your door – into your life_. But Bucky can’t say that because he’s not sorry he found Steve at all. He’s so happy he’s crying. 

“Do you . . .” Steve says, still enveloped in Bucky’s body. “Do you want to – to stay in my room tonight?” 

He feels Bucky nod against his shoulder; let out a shuddering sigh.  
“Thank you,” He whispers.  
“Thank you, too,” Steve says back, with a small, sad smile. Bucky just grips onto him tighter. 

They stay like that a little longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNINGS
> 
> The words 'stupid' and 'idiot' are used casually in this chapter by aggressors. Homophobic slurs are used, and unwanted 'it' pronouns in regards to Steve; misgendering. Bucky's memories include ones about captivity, stasis, sensory deprivation, and torture involving water.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe you're still here holy shit 
> 
> Here's your regular update!! I think this is what you've been waiting for, in more ways than one. enjoy!!
> 
> WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: there's mentions of torture and details of abuse and conditioning, and a panic attack is portrayed. Bucky pulls his hair a lot as well, which I know bothers some people, so please be mindful. A little detail is offered in the more extensive warnings at the end of the chapter!!

Bucky wasn't keen on Steve going out to get lunch today: he took Steve’s arm gently, concern permeating every line of his body, as he shook his head slightly. Steve had sighed, taken his hand, and insisted that the men from last night wouldn’t dare touch him now. Not now that Bucky’s there to protect him. No one comes back from a beating like that and wants another round. 

As he strolls down the block, hands in his pockets, he thinks about exactly how brave Bucky was last night: he confirmed already that he thought the men were his abusers – the people who made him disappear, whatever that might mean in context. And yet he faced them. It wasn’t an easy thing to do, and experiencing violence in the only place he has memories of being safe in has taken a toll on him . . . But he did it anyway. And that’s _huge_. 

Steve might never have known what an amazing fighter Bucky was if those men hadn’t come back into his life, seeking to hurt him, again. He might never have seen his calculating expression, and his mechanical fighting style, executing each move with terrifying and beautiful precision. If Steve hadn’t already known from his physique that he could handle himself, he definitely does now, as he considers Bucky’s heaving silhouette, brandishing a dustbin lid like a gladiator, but with no real weapon to speak of – other than his own body. 

After the uncomfortable sense of familiarity that came with Bucky having to fight for his safety again – for _their_ safety – Steve thinks he deserves some more comforting familiarity, in the form of a bagel from the Rosenbergs’ bakery. 

When he steps inside, another customer is leaving: she hurries out, hands shoved in her pockets, smelling of fresh bread. Steve approaches the counter, smiling at the woman behind it: Clara is the eldest daughter of the family as it is at the moment, but the place has been running for generations now, so she’s just the most recent in a long line. 

Steve orders absent-mindedly, considering the pictures all over the walls behind the counter: fading, sepia smiles stare back at him; people in suspenders and flat caps, newspapers covering their shoes; old dirty aprons, and fresh baked buns from over a hundred years ago. They’ve seen it all, here. 

And that’s what makes him think to ask. It’s a really long shot. But maybe –

“Clara,” Steve begins, drawing her gaze, “I don’t know if you . . . Uh – there’s a big Jewish community here isn’t there?” He asks. She smiles.  
“Yup. Huge,” She says, though she knows that can’t be his entire question.  
“Do you know a lot of families?” He asks. She hums, as she lays out the ingredients.  
“A few of ‘em. The ones that come to Temple, anyhow. And the ones who come in to gossip about their neighbours,” Clara says, turning her grin down to her work.  
“Right,” Steve says, before pausing. “I – know this is a long shot, but – did you ever see a guy at Temple, with sort of . . . I don’t know. He’s broad, he’s strong – long hair?”

She snorts. “Long hair, huh?” She asks raising an eyebrow. “Gonna have to narrow it down. Got a name?” 

Steve blushes. “Um – just, _Bucky_ ,” He asks. She doesn’t answer, for a moment, as she continues preparing the food.  
“. . . It does sound familiar. Old family stories – that kind of thing,”  
“Really?” Steve asks, feeling his heart flutter in his chest. “. . . How old?” 

She shrugs. “A ways back. The kind of story that comes out when everyone’s had a few too many. Kinda story you don’t think’s true, but you gotta humour the old schmucks. I can ask my grandma about it if it’s urgent?” She offers, looking up at him with a kind expression. He bites his lip.  
“I don’t wanna overstep or nothin’,” He says. She waves away his concern, before wrapping his food up. 

“Back in a minute. Watch no one takes anything,” She says. He nods, and she disappears – he hears footsteps, then muffled voices not too far away at all. Within a minute or two, Clara returns with her grandmother. 

“Little Steve, from down the block – is that right?” The woman says. Steve smiles and nods, taking in the woman’s appearance: it’s clear that she’s very elderly, but her eyes shine with a wit and cognizance that makes him think that she’s more than able to help him, if she knows anything at all about the subject of Bucky.

“That’s right, Ma’am,” Steve says, and she chuckles.  
“Nice and respectful. Always thought so – and your flowers!” She says delightedly. “You and that other boy. The soldier. Such a lovely pair,” 

Steve blushes, but doesn’t dispute anything, not wanting to upset her. 

“Clara says you’ve got questions about – what was it?” She asks.  
“Bucky – whether any of you ever met a young Jewish man who went by Bucky, actually,” He says, stumbling over his words a little in his efforts to be clear. 

The woman smiles, and looks out of the window with a happy sigh.  
“Haven’t known anyone round here by that name – except from the obvious,” She tells him, clearly reminiscing.  
“The obvious?” Steve says, trying not to urge her on too much, but feeling like he’s close to the answer he needs, here. Mrs. Rosenberg chuckles.  
“I met him when I was just nine. He was much older than me – his sister Rebecca was a couple of years older than me. But we all lived in the same building, with my grandma – opposite your shop, actually,”  
“Really?” Steve asks, raising his eyebrows. Given that she mentioned her grandmother, he feels his hope ebbing away that this is the same Bucky they’re talking about, here. 

“Oh yeah. No place for children really – it was the great depression, you see. Not much to do, except get in trouble. He was the one protecting us from kids from the next block. Always getting into fights, that one. But even then, he was a charmer. Always had a girl knocking for him – not just girls, neither. But don’t tell anyone that bit,” She says, a twinkle in her eye.  
“I won’t. Promise,” Steve replies with an amused smile. 

She sighs, and looks out of the window again, her expression becoming even more far away: “Of course, they took him to Europe. My grandfather died in the Great War, so I thought I’d never see him again. Imagine my surprise when he makes the papers!” She says.  
“What for?” Steve asks, surprised.  
“Well,” She says, turning back to him, and leaning in slightly. “He was a prisoner of war at some Nazi camp – Azzano, or somewhere like that. Fritz was experimenting on him – joke’s on them, because they made him stronger than ever. He broke out of there, rescued all the other soldiers, and marched them back to camp,” 

Steve pauses, licking his lips: the story is starting to sound familiar. It sounds like a movie he saw – or maybe several quintessentially American movies, an amalgamation of a bunch of old world war two events in one story, which he can remember from school. All inspired by this one man, Bucky, apparently. 

“They promoted him to a Captain, from a Sergeant – all those ranks!” She says, laughing a little. “We’d all seen the news reels, but when they started calling him the _real_ Captain America, it stuck – they even got him a costume!” 

Steve blinks. 

“. . . Bucky was James Barnes?” He murmurs.  
“Yes! James Buchanan Barnes, of the 107th. From right here, in New York City – the silk stockings. They called him Bucky because-”

“-I’m sorry Mrs. Rosenberg,” Steve says, hurriedly digging in his wallet, and throwing down a twenty onto the counter. He grabs his wrapped up bagels, and says, “I’ve just remembered, I’ve left the shop door unlocked – no one’s there to look after it!” He lies. He feels terrible for doing so, but he needs to relay this information to Bucky _right now_. 

“Oh, no!” She says, a hand on her chest. “Run along – you don’t want any more trouble, Steve,” She says, looking genuinely concerned.  
“Thank you though – thank you, so much – you’ve really helped – keep the change!” He tells her and Clara, as he hurries out of the shop.  
“You’re welcome!” Clara calls back, a note of laughter in her voice as he scrambles to get back to the shop.  
But Steve can barely hear her: his heart is thumping in his ears, and his breath is coming short. 

_Bucky. James Barnes. James Buchanan Barnes. James ‘Bucky’ Barnes. Why did I not remember?!_

Steve recalls chapters in his old history textbooks about war propaganda, and the realities behind it: James Barnes, and his Howling Commandos, and Agent Peggy Carter, and their impact on the war effort. Thinking about it, he can almost visualise a picture taken of James Barnes’ dog tags – _James Barnes – 32557083_. He curses himself for not making the connection, before consciously having to reason that he had no cause to think that Bucky is – or even could be – over ninety years old. 

_. . . Could this be real? Is this really happening?_ He half expects Bucky to be gone, in the blink of an eye, when he gets back to the shop. 

After all, James ‘Bucky’ Barnes is dead. He was killed in action, falling from a train, just before the war ended; just before Peggy Carter crashed a plane into the Arctic ocean, saving millions upon millions of lives. 

But when he steps over the threshold of his shop, there he is: _the star-spangled man with a plan_. The only star he wears now is the one on his left shoulder; the only indication that he was ever Captain America is – _is how he smiles when he looks up, eyes shining and full of life though they’re haunted – by the horrors of war, of whatever turned him into the creature he is today – his face, the same as the one staring out from posters and old sepia photographs in museums and textbooks – those things were too blurry, too grainy, too imprecise to warn Steve, to help him recognise the face of a true hero, however old, however scarred, however different._

“. . . Bucky,” He says, feeling himself on the verge of tears at how Bucky’s pale skin glows in the midday sun streaming through the windows; how the flowers around him cast him into gentle technicolour, lightly scented with sweetness he hasn’t known for – _well, it must be decades – seventy years –_

Bucky frowns, because Steve looks upset. He looks like he might cry. His expression is questioning as he straightens up from where he was leaning on the counter, and approaches Steve slowly. 

“You said – you said you didn’t want t-to disappear,” Steve says, stuttering a little. Bucky nods, his expression cautious, as he gently takes Steve by the tops of his arms.  
“. . . You meant _again_ ,” Steve says.  
Bucky swallows. He hadn’t considered that. The words had just come to him in one fell swoop, surging up like some great universal truth from the very depths of whatever murkiness his mind is comprised of. But he nods all the same. 

“I’m not going to let you,” Steve says, and though his hands are full, he reaches around Bucky’s waist to bring him into a tight hug. Bucky is much less rigid than he usually is at the commencement of bodily contact, immediately hugging back, and pulling Steve into his arms, wanting to protect both Steve and himself from whatever has shaken Steve so much.

“I won’t let you fall again,” Steve says, his voice shaky. He feels Bucky tense; from this angle, he can’t see his eyes widen, going slightly unfocussed, as he continues to hold on tight. But when Steve pulls back, Bucky eventually realises he needs to relinquish his hold just enough so that Steve can look him in the eye, and whisper a heartfelt welcome home that Bucky never knew he wanted, or _needed_ , to hear again:  
“. . . I know who you are, Cap,” 

-

 _Cap_. 

Everything else in his mind parts like a sea of blood, of filth, making way for a truth that’s been buried because-

 _Why?_

“Bucky?” 

_Why did he forget?_

_Red, blue, white, red, white stars, blue flag, white, red, red, red, red, red-_

Too dangerous. Too dangerous to say out loud. Too dangerous to even think. He knows what happens if he tries to deny them anything – anything at all. He knows what happens when he tries to defy them. They chose him for this job and he’ll do it. 

_You’re not that man. You’re not even human._

_Remember?_

_Of course you don’t._

_You’re not him. You’re not even you._

"No – stop – I’m-"

_Don’t say it. Don’t think it. Do you want to lose the other one?_

_No?_

_Put him under._

“I won’t tell-!” 

_It doesn’t matter. You won’t remember._

"I can’t take any more-"

_You can and you will._

_If you ever say that again we’ll kill you._

_If you ever say it you’ll wish you were dead._

"I can’t disappear, I’m-"

 _You just can’t help yourself, can you?_

_Poor little Captain. Crying like a woman. Are you a woman? It’s only an arm._

"Please – just kill me –" 

_I thought you said you’d never beg?_

_So much for America’s strongest man. Not even a man at all._

_You belong to us, now._

_You’ll never see your home again. You’ll never speak again. No words but ours._

_You’ll never even think again. Not unless it’s what we tell you to._

_For the last time, who are you?_

_No?_

_Good. Put him under._

-

Bucky blinks. He’s lying on his side. He shuts his eyes tight, not wanting to see the instruments, and the restraints, and the white tiles; taste the metal, the drugs, the thick, oozing blood. 

His face sags, head simply resting on something soft and slightly warm. He doesn’t dare move. If he moves he could burn. If he thinks it he could die. Or worse. 

If he thinks about being – if he thinks he’s-

He freezes when he realises someone’s been touching him this whole time: his hair moves, unbidden, between cold fingers. The sound of the brushing almost drowns out the low hum of talking. He opens his eyes. 

The world has turned on its axis, but then again, he knew that before. It’s dim, the room is lit by only a few low lamps; he can smell a flame, but it’s scented sweetly. Not a blow torch, not for cauterisation, not for sterilisation, not for branding. Just for the scent. 

In the corner, a screen talks softly about a war. A grey-haired man shuffles some papers and reports like Bucky can understand what he’s saying. 

One of the fingers pulls a little too tightly on a hair caught on it, and Bucky flinches: the hand stills, and Bucky hears a noise:  
“Shh. Sorry. It’s okay,” 

_It’s okay, now._

“They’re not here. You’re safe. You can think whatever you want,” 

_You can think it._

“You can say it, if you need to. Nothing bad will happen. You’re safe,” 

_Say it. I dare you._

Bucky just shakes his head. He’s been tricked before.  
“Bucky, I need you to tell me you remember what I said before,” 

Bucky swallows: it was midday, last he remembers; but he can see a dark sky, through a small window, on one side of the room. It’s been hours, at least. He buries his face into the soft warmth. It shifts slightly, and Bucky realises he’s shielding his face with a soft thigh. Someone’s lap, where he’s been gently sleeping, after – _after_ -

“I-” Bucky begins, but fear blocks his airway, making him choke, and shake.  
“Buck. You’re safe, now . . . They don’t get this. They don’t get to control your thoughts. They don’t get to control what you think, or say, or do. So say it,”

Bucky shakes his head, eyes shut. He hears a sigh. 

“When I was a kid . . . I knew what was wrong with me. Not wrong, but – different, to the other kids. To the girls I was supposed to be like . . . But I had to – to pretend. And I thought I’d be able to pretend forever,”  
The gentle hand strokes several strands of hair from Bucky’s forehead. He shudders, squirming into the warmth a little more. 

“I stopped myself from even thinking about it. I pushed it down – and down, and down. I didn’t want to get hurt. I didn’t – didn’t want to die,”  
The words are thick with emotion. Bucky feels it stuck in his throat like it’s his. 

“. . . My Mom said it was like I disappeared. She didn’t know where I went. I was there, but – I wasn’t me. I wasn’t her Stevie. I’d repressed him. Told myself he didn’t exist. Told myself I’d won, and that I’d never think about it again,” 

Bucky nods. He understands. He knows that feeling. He’s harboured it for close to a century. A century of killing. Bathed in blood, and acid, and electricity. Full of ice, and rage, and narcotics. Nothing fills the hole where his thoughts should be. Nothing – 

\- nothing fills the hole Bucky Barnes left in him. 

He sobs, fingers gripping onto the trousers of the thigh. The hand is back to stroking his hair, though it shakes.  
“. . . I was wrong. It hurt me more to not talk about it. I hurt myself so badly, I couldn’t even talk to a therapist about who I was for months. One session a week of _school’s fine, art’s fine, school's fine_. But I couldn’t hold it back forever. I’d have made myself sicker,” 

There’s a pause. Bucky breathes the scents of the room in through his nose, and out again. 

“. . . Look at me, Bucky,” 

He opens his eyes and he sees Steve’s face gazing down at him, his head still in Steve’s lap, where Steve put him. He looks tired, and his eyes are red. His freckles stand out against his pale skin.  
“You can think it. You can say it. I don’t know what they did to you, but what I saw earlier . . . What I saw was awful. You said they wouldn’t let you think about – about being who you are. But they don’t get to do that anymore. You’re you, and you belong to no one,” 

“No one,” Bucky repeats. 

Steve nods. 

“I-” Bucky says again – but this time, he swallows past the shotgun shell lodged in his throat, and continues: “M-my n- my n-name is – James B-Barnes . . . Bucky B-Barnes,”  
“Good,” Steve encourages softly, bringing a hand to cup Bucky’s stubbly cheek.  
“I – I was . . .” He pauses, and shakes his head, closing his eyes. Steve opens his mouth to tell him to keep going, but he speaks again, before Steve can say anything: “I _am_ Captain America,” 

-

They stay in that position for the rest of the night. Steve explains in gentle terms that he shut the shop early: Bucky collapsed to his knees, and Steve couldn’t tell if he was breathing, at first. He had held his own head tight, pulling on his hair until his scalp went red, and shaking all over. He couldn’t hear Steve at all – Steve put a blanket on him, but he didn’t react at all, eyes squeezed shut, shaking and shivering. 

He mentions that Natasha came over, and helped him with moving Bucky upstairs: she’s much stronger than she looks, and she knows first aid – she guaranteed Steve that Bucky would wake up, when he was unable to rouse him, originally. But it was clear that she was deeply interested in the situation. She had a lot of questions that Steve has to promise Bucky he didn’t answer. 

Occasionally, while passed out, Bucky would he mutter a denial, or a refusal – but the begging. It’s hard to imagine that anyone, or anything, could cause Bucky to beg like that. He’s huge, he’s strong, and he’s – well, he’s Captain America. Once upon a nightmare, anyway. 

He kept saying – kept _weeping_ that he promised not to talk about being Captain America, to not even think about it, lest whoever he was talking to in his . . . _Episode_ , or hallucination, or memory – whatever it was – hurt him in some way. Whatever they did scared him to death. Whatever they did scarred way more than just his body. His mind was theirs. 

But Steve can tell, from the way Bucky relaxes under his touch, crying silently on and off, but talking to Steve about what he saw in the most defiant way he can, that they didn’t take his soul. No – that, they didn’t get their hands on. 

“I . . . Fell,” Bucky murmurs. Steve nods, and Bucky can see the noble jut of his jaw moving from this position, still with his head on Steve’s lap, turned away.  
“Yes. The history books talk about that. There’s . . . A memorial, to you. And to Peggy Carter. Do you remember her?” He asks. 

Bucky purses his lips. 

“. . . Red,” He says. Steve pauses, not understanding. “Red lips. White teeth. Brown eyes,” Bucky tells him, though his speech is stilted. Steve smiles down at him, feeling proud.  
“That’s it. Even in black and white pictures she looked beautiful. When I last went to a museum,” Steve clarifies. Bucky licks his lips. 

“Remember . . . Russians. Snow,” He grits out, reaching his hands up to rub his eyes. Steve strokes his hair with one hand, soothing him; braiding tiny plaits that unravel in seconds. “A deal. For my life,”  
“They sold you?” Steve asks. Bucky shrugs.  
“. . . Then . . .” He sighs. “Scientists. White coats. Metal – c-can – taste it,” 

Steve’s eyes press shut, not wanting to think about that, but desperately wanting to decipher Bucky’s shaky memories, no matter how buried and fragmented they might be. It’s more of an archaeological dig, than a story.  
“They experimented on you,”  
“Again,” Bucky reminds him. Steve swallows.  
“Again,” It’s then that Steve realises. “Wait – _again_. As in – the same people?” 

Bucky nods once, turning his head and opening his red-rimmed eyes to look up at Steve.  
“Hydra. Hydra caught you, and they made you-”  
“They made me this,” Bucky confirms; squirms slightly, looking uncomfortable. “Z-Zola . . . Th-then there was, Karpov . . . R-Rodchenko . . . And-”

He shakes his head, tugging a little at his hair again: Steve places his hands on Bucky’s wrists, gently telling him to stop hurting himself. He desists, tense fingers relaxing, breathing out another name:  
“Pierce,”  
“When was that?” Steve asks, realising that if any of these men are still alive – if Bucky can recognise them, then they could be made to pay. They could unearth something that’s supposed to have died, long ago, with the end of WW2. 

Bucky sighs, and opens his eyes.

“Looked like you. When he was young,” He says, though his words are clipped. Anguish fills Steve’s eyes, and he curses himself that he should even with his appearance make Bucky draw that comparison. “19-1955 . . . 69 . . . 83 . . . 94 . . . 01 . . . 08 . . . 14-”  
“14? – Two years ago?” Steve asks. “That’s when you last saw him? – The last one, Pierce?”

Bucky bites his lip. His eyes search Steve’s face, looking for a way to apologise. Steve suddenly feels like he’s gone too far. Bucky scratches his right arm with his left hand. Hard. He won’t stop, but Steve will try and help him to. 

“Sorry,” Steve says gently. “You don’t know everything. That’s okay. It’s fine. Absolutely fine,” 

Bucky’s gaze is cast down at his own chest. The TV chatters in the background. Bucky looks disappointed – in himself, perhaps.  
“This doesn’t make you – weak, or something. You’ve told me so much. You’ve spoken so much, today. I’m . . . I gotta say, I’m proud,” 

Bucky looks up at Steve, again, his eyes wide: his expression is that of a deer caught in the headlights, and Steve’s worried for a moment that he’s triggered some horrific memory in Bucky, again. 

But Bucky sits up slowly, his face drawing nearer to Steve’s: Steve just watches him rise, eyes maintaining contact – that is, until Bucky closes his eyes. Steve continues to watch, as he presses his forehead to Steve’s, letting out a great sigh through his nose. Steve smiles sadly, and shuts his eyes too. 

He reopens them, starting slightly, when he feels lips against his own: a little dry, extremely tentative, but definitely there. Bucky’s got his eyes shut, and stray strands of hair are strewn about his stubbly face, but there’s no denying what Steve’s eyes are showing him; what his skin feels, when Bucky’s facial hair brushes up against his freckled skin, just for a moment. 

It’s a small, chaste kiss; it takes Steve completely by surprise, but before he can do anything, Bucky pulls away, and turns away. He faces towards the TV, head in Steve’s lap again, as if he’s too embarrassed to even look at him, after that. As if he’s scared. 

Steve can’t have that. Cautiously, like Bucky might snap at him – _even though he definitely just initiated that kiss – maybe he just doesn’t understand? – of course he does, he’s from the forties, he’s not a child – he knows what that means, he must have had plenty of girls, he was Captain America! – but does this mean he thinks I’m a girl – is he gay? Bisexual? What does this mean, now?_ – he places a bony hand on Bucky’s head, stroking his forehead for a moment, before threading his fingers in his hair to stroke it again. 

Bucky’s tense body relaxes, and he burrows deeper into Steve’s lap, yet again. And, though he feels as if his face may crack, and his whole brain is at war, he can’t stop himself from smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MORE DETAILED WARNINGS: Bucky has war flashbacks, of his time with Hydra, and his conditioning to make him forget his identity. This is definitely psychological abuse which has a profound effect on Bucky's ability to think about his identity and to speak at all in general. 
> 
> Bucky's hair-pulling isn't intentional self-harm but is rather the result of anguish and frustration, as is some minor uncomfortable scratching (one mention). His breakdown results in him becoming unresponsive for a time and having nightmares/hallucinations.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you're still here!! thank you so much!! aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!! 
> 
> happy birthday, buck [and i'm sorry] 
> 
> WARNINGS: torture, mentions of torture, mentions of abuse, violence, Bucky is ashamed of a bodily function at one point, generally not a very nice chapter (more detailed warnings are available in the notes at the end of the chapter)

Bucky sleeps soundly most of that night. He shares Steve’s room, again, falling asleep staring at the flags and sports paraphernalia, band posters and old family photographs that line the walls on Sam’s side of the room, while he sleeps in Sam’s soft bed. Steve’s side of the room is less organised, or perhaps it just looks that way, because he’s pinned up chaotic sketches all over his walls. Sam features in a lot of the more recent ones. Steve misses him. Bucky can feel in in the atmosphere, as he falls asleep; it hangs ever-present in the air. 

His dreams are a terrifying swirl of chaos and nothing. They fade in and out, syllables and grey matter, touching and twisting like shadows made tangible. He hears whispers he cannot make out. He sees hands and fingers and lips that don’t quite match. He hears the dull thud of machinery and the steady clicking of a clock. And somehow, he knows it’s counting down. 

_Shh_

_We’re coming_

_Better run, boy_

_Run_

_Too late_

_Say it again_

_Not_

_The Captain says_

_Nothing_

_Don’t_

_Don’t-_

They press down lightly on his chest, and he whimpers, because as much as he tries, they only push harder, hand on his mouth, hand on his wrist, weight on his chest, _he can’t move, he can’t speak, can’t breathe-_

He wakes with a start but the dark eyes follow him: he’s conjured them into real life and no one will ever be safe ever again. 

He opens his mouth but the pressure increases; the pressure on his chest increases. His left hand is pinned to the wall by a right leg. A left knee kneels on his chest. A left hand presses his wrist to the bed. A right hand covers his mouth and he is trapped. He doesn’t struggle because he is scared to death. 

“/Be silent/,”  
“/Yes, sir/,” 

His words are muffled but the eyes narrow. 

“What did you call me?” 

He doesn’t speak. It was a mistake. It was a conditioned response. 

The hand is removed from his face but immediately replaced with a gun. It nudges at the hollow of his jaw but his dull eyes remain fixed on the dark eyes, rather than the weapon. Unless they specify otherwise, it is best to stare straight ahead. Some of them like him to look scared. Some even prefer him crying when he otherwise would remain silent, stoical. This one has not specified and so he will not react. 

_He will not react._

_He will not-_  
He blinks and suddenly his eyes have flicked toward Steve: he’s turned towards Bucky, eyes shut in a peaceful, undisturbed sleep. In huge amounts of danger, but completely unaware. Calm, and blissfully ignorant of the fact that Bucky has probably killed him. His vision blurs. 

The gun nudges at his chin a little harder, getting his attention back. He gulps, and a tear slips from his eye unbidden. He can’t tell if it’s from emotion, or the fact that he’s been staring way too long. 

“I am here for you. He will not be harmed,” 

_If you do what I say_ appears to be the unspoken clause of that particular sentence, for Bucky. If he doesn’t obey, at the very least, Steve will wake up to the remains of a long-dead soldier on the bedding and walls of his brother. Worse, he will be killed. Bucky will have to live with it, if he is still alive. 

At the very worst, Bucky will have to watch him die. See the fear and the betrayal in those stubborn eyes. Cheeks flushed red as the blood spilling through the cracks in his shattered skull. 

Family photographs, and sketches, and flags, forever stained with blood. 

Even worse, Bucky will be left alive and alone and grieving with no solution. 

“Up. Kitchen. Quietly,” 

He blinks once, and the foot is removed from his left wrist; the hand is removed from his right, and the knee slips off his chest. The gun is removed from the hollow of his jaw, and moves a little further away, allowing him to stand. He moves mechanically, cursing how his sweat pants rustle, in case it’s too loud, and Steve gets killed. Anything he does from now on could get Steve killed. 

“Don’t look back,” 

He doesn’t. 

He’s marched into the kitchen. 

“Sit,” 

He sits, being sure to pull out the chair quietly, as the kitchen door is shut silently. He fixes his eyes on his and Steve’s mugs from the evening: Steve introduced him to _hot chocolate_ tonight. It was sweet and it helped him calm down. His eyes stopped leaking and Steve even said some colour returned to his cheeks. 

He shivers, his bare chest feeling a chill that’s nothing to do with the cold: he freezes up, afraid of what a shiver could result in, for Steve. If he’s not still, silent-

He hears a noise, and suddenly, his whole body spasms: he gasps, his jaw clenching – but the most agonising sensation overall is the feeling that his entire left limb has been reduced to jelly, swinging down by his side. A hand catches it and, while he’s distracted, quickly binds his upper limbs together by the wrists. Even if he wanted to struggle, the hands are insistent, and he doesn’t think he has the strength. He’s still gasping for breath, his head dipped between his shoulders, his messy hair dangling in his face, brushing the newly stubbly skin of his chest. Not so good for electrodes anymore. 

His hitching breaths slow, a little; his metal arm still feels weak, and boneless, for lack of a better word, to him. But he still doesn’t want to look up and see his captor.  
He hears the chair on the other side of the table move – _Sam’s chair, must be Sam’s chair, Steve looks uncomfortable if I sit in it, and he never sits there_ – but he doesn’t look up. The quicker he looks up the quicker Steve will die. He’s completely sure. 

“You knew me. I could see in your eyes that you knew me,” 

He keeps his eyes shut. 

“I didn’t know you until Steve called – asked me for help lifting you upstairs. I was between ops so I came to help. Thought I might be able to squeeze some more information about Wilson out of him. Imagine my surprise when I recognised your . . . Arm,” 

He finally looks up: it’s a woman. The woman from before. _Natasha_. Natasha – _between ops_ – _information about Wilson_ – _he was right, she’s here to hurt Steve, she’ll kill him_ -

He struggles to move his wrists, but it’s no use – his metal arm is stuck fast, the pain pulsing through him every few seconds, making him tense like he’s being tazed. All his muscles feel weak and he feels like he can smell sick and urine but he knows he’s produced neither. Not yet. 

“You failed,” 

He blinks, eyebrows knitting together, eyes focussing on her neck rather than her eyes. He can’t face eye contact. He shifts, uncomfortable hearing her words. 

“You didn’t kill me. The bullet was a through-and-through. But then I guess you weren’t there for me,”  
“D-don’t- hurt-”  
“Don’t hurt you?” She asks, raising an eyebrow. He shifts at her sudden movement, as she sets a gun down on the table with a _thunk_. Her tone is almost chiding – she’s scoffing.  
“-S-” He tries, but shuts his eyes, and shakes his head. His words won’t come. It’s like someone is holding his tongue down.  
“I knew you weren’t a talker. Did know this was why,” She observes. “But believe me. You’ll tell me what I want to know. And you’ll do it without waking Steve up,”

Bucky opens his eyes, huge and shining, to look at her gun. He’s absolutely terrified and ashamed of what she’s going to do to Steve. He says nothing. 

“There’s only one reason I haven’t knocked you out to bring you in,” She says, and he swallows hard, at the thought of waking up with Pierce staring down at him like a disapproving parent – but one that’s about to insist on him being tortured back into the child they see fit.  
“I have to know that you've done nothing to hurt Steve,” 

Bucky blinks. His mouth falls open slightly, before closing and reopening again. _Hurt Steve? Why would he ever hurt Steve?_

“Answer me,” 

He just shakes his head. She nods thoughtfully once, before reaching for her belt, and taking out a hypodermic syringe. His eyes widen, and even where he’s sat, he tries to lean away. 

“N-never. Never hurt Steve. Don’t – don’t use that on him,”  
“This is for you. It’ll be easier on Steve if you don’t wake him up by making too much noise. I think he might go into shock. Have an asthma attack,” She says, flicking the syringe to dispel any air bubbles, pushing a drop of clear liquid out of the needle. He feels another rush of adrenaline surge in his already saturated blood, _just like old times, he'll ride this exhausting wave until it's all over, he has no other choice_. 

She pauses, for a second – she looks up at him, registering his words. Bucky, however, interprets her words as a threat. The things she could do to Steve without even touching him. 

“. . . Why would I want to hurt Steve?” She asks curiously, genuinely perplexed by his words.  
“B-because he-” Bucky closes his eyes for a moment, and swallows convulsively. “Because he hid me from you,” 

She snorts quietly.  
“He doesn’t know what you are. But I do. I’ve got the scars to prove it,” She tells him. He bites his lip, unable to express his confusion. “And I need to know if you’ve hurt him, too. The truth,” 

Bucky shakes his head again, though her words confuse him. “Wouldn’t hurt him – you c-can’t make me,” He defies her.  
“Why would I want to make you? – I’m Steve’s friend. You’re the deadly assassin. I’ve come to remove the threat from his life,”  
“Who – who are you?”  
“I told you. We’ve met,” She deadpans.  
“N-no,” Bucky denies. “I don’t – don’t remember you,” 

She snorts again.  
“It’s a good defence. But it won’t stop you from being neutralised,”  
“Please,” Bucky finally begs. “Don’t t-take me away from him. I d-don’t want to go back,” 

That gives her pause. She raises an eyebrow at him: takes in the way his body shakes, and the way he stutters; his wild hair, and his red eyes. They aren’t nearly as cold as when she last saw him – but surely it was him. Something has thawed him out, somewhat.  
She sets the syringe down. His eyes are trained on it, as she speaks.  
“. . . Back to where, exactly?” She asks. He bites his lip again, not wanting to say their name, in case all of his work with Steve these past months is spontaneously erased, somehow. But he has to do it.  
“Who you work for,” He says, avoiding saying the name.  
“And who do you think that is?” She persists. He has to bite the bullet.  
“. . . Hydra,” 

She licks her lips; shift slightly in her seat, clearly uncomfortable with the name.  
“So that’s who bought you. We had a paper trail for when you were with the Russians, but the rest was destroyed. Guess we know who their buyer was, now,”  
“I don’t know,” He says. She smirks.  
“Please. I spoke to you in Russian, there. You answered in Russian. We both know who you are, Winter Soldier,” 

The name is like a slap to the face: Bucky’s head jerks down, eyes tightly squeezed shut, and his fingers clench against the hideousness of the feeling; his arms pull and pull, but her restraints are too much for him right now. 

“I don’t - remember, please – you have to b-believe me,” He tells her. She looks at him pitifully, and has to remind herself that this is the same man who shot her charge, right through her own hip. He tried to kill her. Just because he’s pretending to be human doesn’t mean he didn’t do that. He’s dangerous, and he’ll hurt Steve – he’ll turn on him, and give up this act, in a second, she knows. He’s a machine, after all. He is programmed.  
“I don’t work for Hydra. I work for SHIELD. I’m here under sanction from the director himself. Special orders. He wanted me to track you down,”  
“The director?” He asks, not fully comprehending.  
“He was very specific. Gave me special orders, on top of my current assignment. He had a lead on your whereabouts. Told me to keep searching the city, lean on everyone I had to to get to you, because you’re dangerous, and he wants to bring you in,”  
“N-no,” Bucky denies. “I’m not-”

But then he remembers the men he beat savagely in the alleyway; glancing out of the window towards the fire escape of the next building, high above the alleyway in question, he finds that he can’t deny it. He is dangerous. 

“What are you expecting, when I bring you in?” Natasha asks, taking the syringe up again, but not advancing on him; just holding it in her hands. A warning shot. 

Bucky almost wretches at the thought. 

“I’ll disappear,” He says softly, gazing down at the syringe; his eyes lose focus, as he considers how he’ll have to be _re-educated_. Every single thing Steve has done for him – burned to ashes, scattered around his mind, never to come back to him whole, or maybe at all, in the blink of an eye. All with incredible amounts of pain the likes of which he allowed himself, just for a few seconds earlier, to believe he might never have to be subjected to again. 

“Well, you’re right about that one. You’ll be tried privately, and sentenced under director Pierce’s supervision,” 

Bucky tenses up: his eyes slowly travel up to her face; he lifts his head, tilting it to one side; his eyes are wild, and he looks so genuinely shaken that it’s uncomfortable for Natasha to watch. She swallows back the feeling, as his mouth falls open. 

“. . . D-director-” 

But he can’t say it, like he did, earlier. He can’t be strong, like he was for Steve. He can feel his strength waning, even now. He realises that this is what it feels like to lose all hope – again. 

“Pierce. Yes,” She says – but she frowns. “Ring any bells?” 

He manages to nod.  
“A contract?”  
“N-no,” He says, blinking hard. “He – sent me – used to send me on-” _blows, and blows, and blows, and blows, and-_ “Used to keep me in his – h-house – the b-basement, sometimes – freezer – he – he-” _shots, and shots, and shots, and shots, and-_ “-gave me m-missions, told them to hurt m-me if I didn’t – but I always – I never said n- never said-”  
“Calm down,” She says, and her voice is steel. It forces his mouth shut. He feels her gun at the hollow of his jaw, again, although in reality it isn’t there. “/Focus, soldier. Speak. Who is Alexander Pierce?/”  
“/Head of Hydra/,” Bucky says, and it slips out like blood from an open wound, because her tone is familiar; authoritative, and he can’t say no. 

She purses her lips. 

“/Do not lie to me. Who is Alexander Pierce?/” She says insistently. He screws his eyes shut.  
“/I cannot lie/” 

“Bucky!”

Natasha looks up sharply, and her eyes widen: Bucky flinches, wondering if she’s about to take her gun and finally end his life - she stands abruptly, her hand on her weapon, as if there’s a new threat. 

But that voice was Steve’s. Her friend, Steve’s. The one thing in the world Bucky least wants to lose. But from what she’s saying, he deserves to. He hurt her – he hasn’t even tried to tell Steve how many people he’s brutally killed – he’s basically _lied_ to Steve, just so he can stay here with him. 

He closes his eyes, forcing them shut, so he doesn’t see when Steve pads up beside him with his cold, bare feet. He can’t see the look of betrayal. 

He’s put himself before Steve. He hasn’t been honest. He should have tried harder to remember for Steve. _He could have killed him_.

“What – Natasha?!”  
“Steve. I can explain,”  
“Get away from him!” 

Bucky’s brow furrows: he opens his eyes, and turns his head, tilting it up to look at him: and there he is. Standing tall, and proud, and angry, staring at Natasha, with – _with Sam’s baseball bat in his hands_. He’s got it raised, but not to try and defend himself from Bucky, this time: to defend Bucky from his friend. 

His face is red, and he appears frustrated with his confusion, trying not to let his temper boil over. 

_Get away from him_. Bucky’s fists clench. He still doesn’t quite believe that Natasha won’t hurt Steve, if he gets in the way of asset retrieval. He vaguely remembers those kinds of missions. _In, and out. Bring him back alive for interrogation. By any means necessary. With extreme prejudice_.

“He’s not what you think, Steve. We’ve met before – he hurt me many years ago, and now he’s saying he can’t remember. But he’s dangerous,” Natasha says.  
“I know he’s dangerous,” Steve tells her – her mouth shuts, and she frowns deeply. Steve edges closer to Bucky’s shoulder, as he looks up at him with wide eyes, feeling something like trust flow between them. He’d do anything for Steve. And Steve would defend him from an armed assassin, while dressed only in his pyjamas, armed only with a baseball bat. 

Bucky thinks about when he kissed Steve earlier. It was on impulse. It felt like what he should do – like he needed to do it, to communicate the feelings of warmth and safety, without any inhibitions or internal fight. He’d do it again in a heartbeat. Especially for the caring touches Steve continued to give him, afterwards. 

“I know all about him. But I don’t know about you,” Steve tells her – and he’s right. Bucky’s been as honest as his memory will permit, but Natasha . . . Well, she’s not a local journalist.  
“It’s a lot to explain. I work for the government – for SHIELD,” She says. “We’ve been searching for this man for decades, now. Not sure how he still looks the same, but he’ll tell us when he’s in custody,” She tells Steve.  
“Bucky,” Steve says. But he’s not addressing him.  
“What?” She asks, one eyebrow raised.  
“Bucky. His name is Bucky,”  
“Steve-” She says, reaching out a placatory hand to him, about to explain that the man by his side is a _spy_ , and of _course_ he used an alias with Steve.  
“It’s short for something,” Steve says, not finished. She looks at him quizzically, waiting for an explanation. 

Instead, he crouches down beside Bucky: Bucky’s eyes are drawn to his, wide and stricken; but Steve’s eyes are so hopeful, so bright and expectant, that it helps him to hear his words with pristine precision, unlike the rest of the conversation – which has been hazy, at best, when competing with hideous memories of _interrogations, and restraints, and cold dark nights that swallowed him whole, which he never returned from the same, or in one piece-_

“Bucky?” Steve addresses him, and gently tucks his wild hair behind his ears for him. “Can you tell her what your name is?” He requests. “Your old name?” 

Bucky bites his lip: he feels that shotgun shell in his throat again, blocking his airway. He wants to ask Steve to massage his throat but he’s not sure it’s real so he won’t do that.  
“James,” He says.  
“Good – what else can you remember? – You can say it, can’t you?” Steve reminds him, thinking of how violently Bucky reacted against even wanting to _think_ his real name – and title – earlier. And that was in a no-pressure situation; not under the scrutiny of a SHIELD spy. 

But Bucky nods. He won’t let Steve down, like he endangered him in his home. 

“James Buchanan Barnes,” Bucky says. Steve smiles up at him, brushing his fingers against Bucky’s cheek, before turning a reproachful look to Natasha.  
“Ring any bells?” He asks sarcastically. Natasha’s eyes narrow.  
“. . . Wait,” She says, squinting at Bucky. “Wait,” She says again, smirking. “You believe that?” 

Steve just stares at her. Hard. 

“You really believe that he’s-”  
“Captain America,” Bucky pipes up, though his voice is quiet. Eventually, his head tilts up, staring up at her defensively; there’s a newfound strength in his posture, which becomes more upright, and sags less, with backup, and hope of forgiveness and _belonging_ with Steve. “I am. I am him,” 

“First you claim the director is – is _Hydra_ -” Natasha says, shaking her head – Steve notices how Bucky flinches at the word _director_ , though he remains strong – “Now you claim to be a superhero,” She finishes. She shakes her head, before adding: “You shot me. You work for Hydra. Don’t be surprised if I don’t believe you, _James_ ,”  
“Then believe me,” Steve says. She looks at him in surprise, and he takes a step forward, lowering his bat until his arm is completely relaxed by his side. He can see that she’s ready to talk, now – she’s actually considering it, despite her words. He can tell by her posture, and the way her brow furrows. 

“Natasha,” Steve says softly. “He’s from this neighbourhood – it’s in history books, along with pictures of him in a uniform. Sure he’s – a little different, now,” Steve says, glancing down at Bucky for a second, trying to keep the fondness he has for Bucky out of his gaze, lest Natasha consider him too biased to think clearly. “But he’s the same man. And he never did anything to – to _anyone_ out of choice, with whoever had him before. They really hurt him, Nat. They – God, you saw him earlier. That was when I told him the Jewish family around the block knew him – knew he was Cap. It was torture even to think about that, because of what they’ve done to him. Don’t you see?” Steve pleads. 

She sets her gun down on the table, and folds her arms. Bucky tries not to pant in fatigue, as the electronic device on his arm causes him to spasm over, and over, and over again. He’s endured so much more for so much longer. He can last. This is important. Do it for Steve – for both of you. 

“Then what do you want me to do?” She asks bluntly.  
“Pierce,” Bucky says, trying not to choke on the word. Both of them look at him. “Kill him. He’ll – he’ll – you have to-”  
“Pierce? – You know Pierce? – The same guy?” Steve says, recognising the name from earlier.  
“He’s the director of SHIELD,”  
“He’s the one who hurt Bucky – well, one of them anyway,” Steve tells her, urgency in his voice. Natasha look between them, her expression conflicted. 

“I can’t murder the director. Sorry,” She says sardonically, trying too cover up her struggles with humour.  
“Please!” Bucky insists. “I can’t disappear again,” He tells her, and the words feel tragically as if they belong in his mouth. He’s been at the mercy of others for too long. At least these ones are human.  
“He’s bad news. Please-” Steve sighs exasperatedly, rubbing his face with his free hand. “Can you just do some – some _spying_ or something, before you hurt Bucky?”  
“I can’t just leave him here,” She says, placing her hands on her hips.  
“You’re not taking him,” Steve says boldly, hackles rising again – so easily enraged. 

“Will it make Steve safer?” 

Natasha glances down at Bucky, again: he looks wrecked, eyes red-rimmed, face pale, breathing hard, with his muscles clenching every few seconds at random intervals. She feels a pang of regret for treating him so harshly – but then again, there are very few ways she’s heard of that the Winter Soldier has ever been _detained_. They’re all unsubstantiated rumours – just like his existence, in general – but given that he’s a super-soldier, it was a necessary precaution. 

_. . . He claims to be a super soldier, anyway_ , She thinks to herself. She doesn’t know what to believe, anymore. 

“Buck-” Steve protests.  
“If you take me in. Will Steve be safer?” Bucky asks again, insistently. 

But as she looks between Steve’s red face, over-emotional and passionate about the man he’s been looking after for months, now, she realises that she can’t do this to him. Not when he thinks that ‘Bucky’ is Captain America, and not an assassin who could hurt him. Not when she’s not sure which version of the man in front of her is the real one. 

She takes out her knife. 

Steve raises his bat, eyes widening; Bucky watches the knife avidly, gaze trained on it, while trying his best to remain stoical, now. _Keep strong for Steve_. 

“Natasha-!”  
“Shh,” She says, and leans past him to touch Bucky’s head: in a second, she’s cut a lock of hair from his head, all while he cringes at the sudden bodily contact. 

Steve blinks, as he watches her go for a kitchen draw which happens to house sealable plastic bags. He feels a little chilled that she knows exactly where to find them, despite ostensibly never having been in his apartment before noon today, to help him carry Bucky – and she certainly didn’t raid the kitchen, then. 

She places the deep brown lock of hair inside, and stuffs it in a pocket on her belt. 

“Names,” She says, picking up a used envelope and a pen from the table, and shoving them towards Bucky, before rounding him. He’s biting his lip, and Steve watches his face carefully for signs of distress, as she unbinds his wrists and – crucially – takes the shocking device from his left arm.  
Bucky immediately brings his hands to his chest, folding his forearms along one another and clinging to his biceps like he’s freezing: in reality, he’s just shivering through the aftershocks of prolonged electrocution. He feels deep shame, as he tastes bile, and realises that his sweatpants are wet. He doesn’t want Steve to see. 

“What names?” Steve asks when Bucky finds he can’t. His speech comes and goes by the second, as a result of being so turned around; so defensive and caught up, so dangerous and vulnerable, in equal measures, tipping the scale this way and that with every second that ticks by. 

“Handlers. Hydra big shots. Anyone involved with supposedly _brainwashing_ him, making him forget,” She says, retrieving her gun, and holstering it, before crossing her arms. Bucky hesitantly reaches for the envelope, and picks up the pen shakily. 

He writes in Cyrillic. Steve wasn’t expecting that, but then again – he heard Russian from his bedroom, after a yelp of pain he thought he imagined, and muffled American voices. It’s what let him know Bucky wasn’t up speaking to himself, or something like that, really. 

Steve doesn’t expect to be able to tell if Bucky’s handwriting is any good, in the foreign script: but every line is shaky, the size of each character varies wildly. Some words are in English – _at the end, Alexander Pierce, for example_ – some are Spanish, or German – and there are some words that don’t look like names at all. Steve frowns down at the paper, but as Bucky slides it across the table to Natasha and she picks it up, he still doesn’t understand.  
She looks down at it, scanning it: she bites her lip, for a moment, before looking up at Bucky. He holds her gaze, as if there’s some mutual understanding between them. 

“. . . Give me time,” She says. “If I don’t find anything-”  
“You will. That’s what spies do, isn’t it?” Steve asks, a little harshly. She sighs.  
“I’m sorry for lying to you, Steve. But we’re going to get to the bottom of this,” She says determinedly. Steve nods; Bucky does nothing, still staring up at her stoically; still shivering, though he wills himself to stop. 

They watch her step up to the window, and climb through it without another word: she disappears seamlessly into the night, until the only sign she was there is a missing used envelope, and the well-earned smell of fear. 

Everything is silent and still, for a moment: then, Bucky flinches, as Steve drops his bat, and it lands with a clatter on the floor. He gets down on one knee, hands hovering over Bucky’s face, as his bony knees scream in protest against the cold floor. 

“Jesus, I – I’m so sorry, Buck,” He’s rambling, “I – I didn’t know about her – I didn’t know, I couldn’t say – I didn’t know about any of this – I shouldn’t have trusted her, I shouldn’t-”

Bucky lifts his hands rapidly, pressing Steve’s hands inwards, and onto his cheeks: Steve’s speech stutters to a halt, as he feels Bucky’s stubble beneath his fingers; feels his cold sweat, and dried tears. 

And he smiles. 

“Not you,” Bucky says, trying desperately to absolve Steve of any guilt he’s feeling. “You can’t do this alone. You needed help,”  
“But I – I asked the wrong person – _shit_ , I should have been more careful-”

Bucky’s hands slip from on top of Steve’s, and go to Steve’s face, mirroring Steve’s own position: he strokes Steve’s sallow cheeks, thumbs tracing the dark rings beneath his eyes, as his face glows a pale red in the meagre kitchen light. Bucky doesn’t like to think about red. Not red skulls, not red stars, not red hair. But on Steve, it’s a welcome break from the blackness and the greyness. 

“No,” Bucky says, a little more forcefully this time, although his expression is still gentle. “H-helped me. Protected me,” Bucky points out. 

Steve smiles through his guilt, and nods, his skin brushing against Bucky’s hands. Bucky is lost in the motion, just for a moment, before he frowns:  
“If . . . If I remembered wrong,” He says, “I-if . . . Then she’ll come back,” He points out. Steve sets his face, a determined bent to his whole posture, even though he’s down on one knee:  
“We’ll figure it out. No one’s hurting you,” 

Bucky doesn’t have the heart to deny it; doesn’t find himself capable of saying a single thing against that frustrated, beautiful face; that stubborn soul, fiercely passionate about what – and who – he cares about. Who he is, unapologetically. And what that means. 

Slowly, Bucky stands: his pants are uncomfortable, now, and he grimaces. Steve’s eyes linger on the seat, for a moment, but he understands:  
“I’ll clean up. Get a quick shower,” He suggests. So that’s what Bucky does. 

He spends most of his shower standing under the stream with his hair hanging directly in his face, a dark, limp halo, as he watches discoloured water flood his toes. He much prefers showers to baths. No rising water. 

The way his own chest and stomach move with each breath catches him out, several times: like there’s something moving inside him, under his skin; like the physically embodiment of the . . . _Thing_ , all over his files. The many-tentacled beast with a skull for a face. It’s not in him anymore. He’s alone in his head, or at least, he tries to be. And he holds on. 

He towel-dries his hair so it’s not sopping wet, then steps out of the shower room, only to find that Steve has left him some clothes on the floor: he steps back inside the bathroom, and puts them on, feeling clean and warm again. He doesn’t quite feel _safe_ with the threat of Natasha returning at any second to tell him he’s _wrong, Pierce is a good man, you’re a monster, you deserve those creatures that move under your skin and scream in your mind whenever you lose the fight with them_ – but she doesn’t come. So he goes back to Steve’s room. 

Steve’s dozing, when he enters the room: he drops his towel on the airier, and just stands and stares at Steve: even asleep, he’s frowning; he stirs, but doesn’t wake fully until Bucky moves from his position to climb into Sam’s bed. 

“Wait,” 

Bucky looks up, wondering if Steve is in some way troubled: he does look a little pained, in a way that Bucky can’t interpret, though his night vision is impeccable. Steve bites his lip. 

“If you’ll feel safer, I can . . . . We can-” 

He pulls his comforter open slightly, and nods towards his bed. Bucky looks down at it, judging the size, and realising that Steve wants him to get in and share with him – if he’ll feel safer. 

Yes. Yes, he would. 

But they’d be – they’d be so close, what if Steve decides he doesn’t want to? What if Bucky’s asleep, and so can’t hear him? What if he – _no, don’t think that, don’t even think it soldier, you don’t hurt innocents – not until monsters capture you, anyway, not until they force you to, not until they reprogram you and take your fucking mind and boil it-_

“You don’t have to,” Steve says, though Bucky senses that his tone is a lot too measured to be casual. This . . . Sounds like something Steve desires. But he has to be careful.  
“If you want it,” Bucky says, “If you’ll tell me when you don’t w-want it,” Bucky says. 

“Of course,” Steve says, with a small smile. He understands that inflicting any sort of abuse on someone else, especially the kind Hydra used on him, is a complete no-go for Bucky. Even if it’s involuntary. 

So he makes space for Bucky, crowding himself against the wall, and lets Bucky get into his bed, facing away from him. Steve’s arm snakes around him, thin and comforting; Steve’s nose is buried in his damp hair, and Bucky swears he can feel him kiss the back of his head. But maybe he’s already asleep. 

He’s out before he can even wonder if this is the first time he’s shared a bed in seven decades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MORE DETAILED WARNINGS
> 
> Bucky is restrained, there is use of torture by electrocution (which causes Bucky to feel sick and wet himself though this is only mentioned very briefly). Bucky experiences more flashbacks to do with his abuse in this chapter due to this fresh abuse. This chapter has a happy ending though!! No need to worry on that front.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **PLEASE read the warnings this time, because the rating of the fic has gone up for sexual content and there are now some extra tags.**
> 
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> I'm going to try and update as normal next week but please be warned, it's been a very hard week for me and I haven't been able to write much, plus I've been away and I'm going away again within a week. With that in mind, please don't panic or feel like I've abandoned you if the next update is a couple of days late or something. For real, in no way will this fic be left alone. Ever. I promise. 
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> WARNINGS: Bucky has a sexual experience in this chapter in close proximity to Steve, which Steve isn't aware of. Proceed with caution and make sure you check the more in-depth warnings at the end of the chapter if you have any doubts. Bucky experiences PTSD and has nightmares.

Bucky feels better rested than he ever has, after sleeping wrapped up with Steve, that night. 

He still wakes in the night, slightly perturbed at being held in position – however weakly – but he’s immediately able to sort it in his mind from deliberate restraints applied to him by Hydra, as Steve’s arms are warm, and soft, and he certainly smells like Steve. Nothing clinical, no beeping noises, nothing covering his face or in his mouth, no smell like death and fear and surgery. 

That doesn’t stop him from being paranoid: every single thing he does, the next day, he’s looking over his shoulder, unable to put it out of his mind that Natasha might be back; that she might come to collect him, and bring him in. 

Rather than leave him alone at the shop to go and get food, Steve instructs him how to make sandwiches, that day: he makes tuna fish, because Steve says it has _essential oils_ in it. Bucky listens intently, but he still finds that he can’t retain information very well. Not when his brain is stuck in fight-or-flight mode, as if there’s a target in the room that’s out for his blood. Out for _Steve’s_ blood.

It’s a tense day: not just for Bucky, but for Steve. In addition to being anxious about Natasha returning with bad news – _Bucky was wrong, I’m taking him into custody, if you’re lucky I’ll let you say goodbye_ – he’s anxious about Bucky’s mental state. The way his eyes flit around the room; the way his leg constantly spasms, bouncing restlessly when he takes a seat. His words, few though they are, are distracted. 

By the end of the day, they’re both exhausted. Steve cooks the dinner, entrusting Bucky to cut up vegetables, and they eat in relative silence, just listening to the radio; they soon move on, Steve beckoning Bucky onto the sofa to watch a little television. As they did the night before, Bucky lies with his head in Steve’s lap, trying to interpret the world through the small, bright window in the corner of the room. Steve watches the news, and he watches cooking shows, and he watches nature documentaries. The bright colours make Bucky feel warm, just as the flowers downstairs do. 

He grows less and less anxious, dozing off as Steve strokes his forehead and hair absent-mindedly: his eyes sink shut to the sound of his and Steve’s breathing, synchronising and deepening along with the volume of the television drifting down. He feels relaxed, the restraint marks on his wrists healing with minimal itching until they’re pale and white once more, if a little scarred from the all the battles he fought before the war. 

_This is what trust feels like_ , he thinks to himself. _This is what it feels like to be cared for and to care_.

When they manage to get up off the couch, that night, Steve invites Bucky into his bed again. Bucky tries not to get too emotional. But he’s never been wanted like this before. 

He has no memories left, in his beaten and tattered mind, of ever being cared for. He can't remember his own mother's face, let alone those of any past partners. But this makes up for it, he decides. 

He doesn’t sleep much, though: not that night, nor the next, nor the next. He slips out of bed to check the shop, and the kitchen and living area, and the bathroom; the small office behind the shop, all the cupboards in the whole building, and the alleyway beside it (which, thankfully, has remained quiet). He finds himself sitting on the doorstep, coaxing the cat to sit with him, attracted to the shine of his metal fingers: if Natasha comes for him now, at least Steve won’t be there to see it. If she comes when he’s up waiting for her, then Steve won’t get hurt trying to stop her. _Because he’ll try. He doesn’t care how much it hurts him. It’s him and his baseball bat versus the world_ , he thinks, as the cat – _what did Steve call him? Simon?_ – licks at his metal fingers. He smiles softly, scratching under its chin, and gladly receiving the headbutts it aims at his knees and shins. It scents him as its territory, but he doesn’t mind. He thinks that he belongs here. 

He hopes he gets to stay. 

The days waiting for Natasha to come are tiring: Bucky has learned to function on next to no sleep for weeks, thanks to the super soldier serum – but he does make the effort to make more pride posies, from the offcuts left behind after pruning the largest and brightest flowers. Steve displays them eagerly on the front desk, tying them to safety pins with thread, and selling them off cheaply. He uses his computer to show Bucky the various pride flags, and what they mean: Bucky takes the time to commit each to memory – but not because he’s afraid of being reprimanded for not remembering, anymore. Because it’s fun, like a game. And he wants to know about these things. His memory gets better with practise, he finds. 

Steve’s heart swells when he sees that Bucky has attached a posy consisting of green, white and purple offcuts to his apron.  
“I’m glad you’re proud, Buck,” He says, taking Bucky’s arm gently as he walks past him: Bucky looks down at his hand, then at his pin, and Steve can see that he’s blushing under his stubble. Steve’s smile grows, like he knows a secret, and Bucky’s head ducks slightly at the praise. 

Bucky is still in good spirits, and to Steve, though he’s clearly afraid that Natasha will be back to detain him, he’s made his peace with it: he doesn’t say anything, but Steve can tell that he’s trying to be strong. That’s why he’s carrying on like he’s not bothered, putting on a brave face for Steve, and trying to have a positive impact on his life. Steve can’t imagine ever being so calm, so _accepting_ of the fact that he could be taken away to face his worst nightmare – and in fact, he’s not accepting of it happening to Bucky, either. He can’t imagine how Bucky is hiding the horror he feels. 

But it’s still obvious, when night falls and the evening reaches a close, that he’s suffering. 

Bucky roams the shop almost constantly, leaving Steve alone in his single bed; though he manages to slip out without upsetting Steve, Steve still wakes in the night and panics when he’s not there – that is, until he hears a gravelly voice in the alleyway below. He falls back asleep, wishing Bucky were beside him instead of cooing at the cat in what he presumes is Russian. He wonders if Bucky even knows he’s switched languages. 

On the third night, when Bucky goes to get out of bed, Steve wakes in time to catch his hand – he sits up, as Bucky turns back to him, eyebrows raised in the meagre moonlight that comes in through Steve’s translucent curtains. Steve’s large eyes shine as they stare up at Bucky: they beg all on their own, even before Steve says,  
“Buck,”

He pauses, biting his lip for a second, as Bucky takes in his body language. He appears to be pleading, with his entire posture, for Bucky to stop.  
“Please – stay, tonight,” 

Bucky licks his lips: he glances towards the window, without moving his head. He thinks about Natasha climbing through it; all the things that could be lurking outside it, ready to hurt Steve. But when he looks back to Steve, he thinks that he might hurt him more by leaving him alone and uncertain. 

He climbs back into bed, and Steve turns away from him: he is confused, for one moment, before Steve reaches behind himself, and tugs Bucky’s left arm around to surround him. It rests on Steve’s stomach, completely still, as Steve settles down. Bucky feels, more than hears, his breathing even out. Slowly, he eases his arm back from Steve’s stomach, to just rest on his hip, so that he doesn’t crush him accidentally in his sleep – nothing like that has happened yet, but Bucky doesn’t want to hurt Steve, _ever_. He can’t imagine harming him, even accidentally. 

Bucky falls asleep, too, his paranoia fleetingly forgotten. 

-

There’s something wrong. But it feels good so Bucky doesn’t realise. 

There’s some sweet something, buried deep inside, which is coming out to bloom: a repetitive motion, a sensation that burns him deep in his gut, but in the nicest possible way. A hand on his neck, hand on his thigh, between his legs – red lips, white teeth, pink lips, facial hair – engine oil, hot coffee, puddles in an alleyway and _just between us, don’t you tell your Mama about this_ -

 _Look so pretty like this. Like a pin-up. Exquisite. I can see why the boys all like you._

Breaths come short, and _loud_ , but then again maybe they’re not breaths. Maybe they’re moans, and bitten-out sobs, and strangled names – _can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t think, burning white hot_ – something has taken over, he used to like to be unable to – to feel – would do anything to get there, drink, fight and fuck, would do anything he could not to be himself because _himself_ liked to wear things for dames, liked to experiment with make-up, wasn’t a man at all-

-Until he wasn’t ashamed anymore. Until he came to terms with the fact he liked to dress how he wanted, liked to try anything once, liked to fuck whoever he wanted and couldn’t have cared less how many people the army had to pay off to not tell anyone. 

Chorus girls – _sharing their make-up and fucking him any way they liked in the dressing rooms_ – soldier boys – _don’t you tell anyone about this, Barnes, or it’ll be your ass next time_ – and then nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing,

The repeat motion makes him stutter and snap, but now he’s remembered their bodies and faces and voices in part, he can’t help but wonder what they’d all think – what would they think if they knew? Did they ever find out? 

Maybe that’s why they hurt me. Maybe they made it worse because they knew, _they knew, pretty boy, don’t tell anyone about this, fuck-_

His eyes fly open and his hips stutter because that last gasp wasn’t in his mind and it wasn’t him. 

“Oh my god-” He hears someone yelp, and he startles. 

He jumps out of bed immediately, and runs to the bathroom. He doesn’t look back. 

He can feel a wetness in his pants but it’s nothing like the one from a few nights ago. There’s a pulsing that makes him feel like he’s being chased, like he’s being choked, like he’s fighting – like he’s right on the edge, he’d just have to reach out and – _and_ -

He shoves his hand down his pants because he wants it to be over – _needs it to be over, needs to be free, needs to find a release-_

His face burns in shame when he hears Steve through the door:  
“Bucky, please-”  
And the words push him over the edge, and he can’t help but groan, his right hand wet now: he’s panting, a note of desperation accompanying each of his breaths, as he helps himself through it, feeling neurons fire that haven’t fired in so, so long. No part of him has been used since then, since people used to call him beautiful, and he used to balk at being _sir, sir, sir._

His breathing slows, and he catches sight of himself in the mirror: his lips bitten red and shining wet, his chest sweaty like just before a wipe – _he could see his own reflection in the scalpels, the tools that lined the walls, his mind’s eye as the electricity stole it right out from under him._

He can’t help but sob once, letting out the tension. And then he remembers. 

_He was in bed with Steve. He was rubbing against something. Rutting like an animal. He must have been – he must have – oh, no – no, no – no –_

“Bucky,” Steve’s voice comes in, sounding a little desperate. 

Bucky cleans himself up, though he can’t imagine that the stink of his shame can be so easily eradicated: his face is still red, and his eyes are still full of sorrow, because _Steve didn’t consent to that. You hurt Steve. You really hurt him._

_And now you’ll have to leave._

“We can talk about it,” Steve says in an uncharacteristically small voice, from the other side of the door. Bucky bites his lip, again, but opens the bathroom door. 

Steve’s eyes, wide and disbelieving, wander up and down Bucky’s body:  
“I . . . You-”  
“S-I’m – I’m s- didn’t m-mean t-” But Bucky can’t catch his breath, right now. “Didn’t – s-so sorry, Steve-”  
“Bucky,” Steve says, shaking his head. “You – you didn’t mean to, did you?” Steve asks. He shakes his head vigorously. _Never – never. Never hurt you like they hurt me. Never touch you without consent. Never want to cross the lines they crossed with me and my body._

Steve purses his lips. There’s a long, loaded silence. He doesn’t know what to say. 

“It’s – it was just a surprise,” Steve says. “I didn’t – I don’t really – it’s been a long time since I . . . Since I slept beside anyone, or was involved in anything – anything like that,” Steve admits, starting to sound a little like Bucky with how much he’s stumbling over his words.  
“Hurt you – hurt you,” Bucky repeats, his words close to a whisper. “Ruined – everything,” He adds. “Have to go,”  
“What? – Bucky, wait-”

Bucky moves past him, not really sure what he’s going to do, but knowing that what just happened wasn’t okay, and it made Steve uncomfortable, and that’s not right, and he needs to leave. 

“Bucky!” Steve says more insistently: Bucky stops in his tracks, as he picks up a shirt from their bedroom floor, putting it on quickly. He stills completely, though the smell of _excitement_ in the air makes his skin crawl. 

But Steve has his attention, now: he looks frustrated, and his face is red. 

“Would you let me decide if I’m hurt or not?” He asks, a little angry. “We need to talk about this!”  
“Didn’t agree,” Bucky tells him, after a pause. “Did say I could-”  
“That you could what? – That you could get morning wood and accidentally try and get off in your sleep right next to me?” 

Bucky’s head snaps to one side like he’s been slapped. Steve’s voice isn’t usually like this. He doesn’t know the reason for it, but he really regrets what he did. Even if it felt – _new. Exciting. Old. Terrifying._

“. . . Bucky. It’s completely normal to – to get hard in the morning. For people with any – downstairs parts,” Steve says, trying to be as straightforward as possible. “You don’t remember that?” 

Bucky shakes his head. Steve sighs. 

“It’s biology. You can’t help it. And – well, you – you were talking to someone, in your sleep. To several people. I didn’t get what about, until you started . . . You know. Against my leg, though your sweatpants. Kinda woke me up properly, and fast,” Steve explains. Bucky swallows, feeling nauseous. 

“Didn’t want to,” He says. “Didn’t know,”  
“Relax,” Steve says. “I know. You – wouldn’t. You wouldn’t have done it, if you were awake. It’s fine,” Steve tells him. But Bucky shakes his head.  
“D-don’t trust me,” He tells Steve. “Hurt you, like they hurt me. Let you down. I’m sorry,” 

Steve’s face softens. 

“I still trust you. You didn’t hurt me – and you’re nothing like _them_. You just . . . Shocked me. It – it happens. You didn’t know, and it’s been . . .” He does the maths, and gives a comedic low whistle, trying to lighten the mood. “Over seventy years. I think you were – due,” He says euphemistically, with a smile. But Bucky doesn’t smile: he’s still scared of what he did. The motions were familiar, from his hips to his hands, but – but they were also somehow alien. 

“Never felt like this. During-” He grits out. Steve licks his lips.  
“Something they gave you?” He asks with a grimace. Bucky just shrugs, but he assumes so. “That’s not right. I’m sorry. It’s completely normal. It’s just . . . I don’t know. People usually do it on their own. Or with a consenting partner,”  
“You didn’t consent,” Bucky tells him again, very much hung up on having hurt Steve.  
“True,” Steve says. “I didn’t – I haven’t . . .” he rubs his forehead. “Haven’t. In a long time. It was just a surprise,” Steve says. “We can talk about it more, if you want?” 

Bucky’s shoulders fall. He shakes his head, his hair brushing on his bare skin: he ties it up quickly, not liking the alien feeling of it tickling his skin right now; he’s too sensitive, prickling all over. The cold air is enough to make his hair stand on end. The feeling of arousal hasn’t completely left his body, if he’s honest with himself. He prays silently that it just goes away. 

“. . . Okay. Later, if you want . . . I’m sure it won’t happen again. Just – don’t leave, over this,” 

Bucky watches Steve’s expression carefully: there’s still trust in his eyes, though he appears perturbed, still. That makes two of them, Bucky guesses. 

Steve yawns, and Bucky follows suit, and checks the clock. They’re only up a little earlier than normal. Then, as if nothing happened, Steve offers Bucky a hand:  
“Breakfast?” He asks with a soft smile. Bucky returns it with a somewhat forced, shaky smile, and takes the offered hand with his metal hand.  
“Breakfast,” He agrees. 

-

They eat in relative silence, just the music from Steve’s radio filling the air between them. Bucky eats toast with his right hand, and keeps his left pressed firmly flat on the table top. Steve doesn’t know if it’s because of what happened to him in that exact chair two nights ago, or because he’s being extremely careful about keeping his hands to himself, right now. 

What just happened, to Steve, truly _was_ a surprise. He’d been sleeping – sleeping very well, very warm – and hadn’t really registered the rhythmic pressing against his leg; the whimpers, and the occasional syllable that slipped from Bucky’s mouth. They all just incorporated themselves into his grey half-dreams, swirling and skipping like a broken record. 

But when he started . . . Well, Steve would call it _moaning_ . . . It sounded like he was distressed. It sounded half-way between arousal, and an abject noise of terror – although Steve’s semi-conscious mind had only interpreted the worst of the noise. That’s what woke Steve up. He just wanted to know if those men had come back to hurt them – or worse, if Natasha had come back to take Bucky with her. 

He still can’t face that. He can’t face not knowing what will become of Bucky, if she chooses to detain him: where he’ll go, who will get custody of him, how they’ll treat him, in every sense of the word. Bucky isn’t neurotypical, by any stretch of the imagination, but he’s making progress here, as his own form of _therapy_ , really. Doing good work, being creative, unravelling his own timeline, and his own similarities and differences in identity. 

But thinking that some _facility_ could pump him full of unwanted and incapacitating medications, or even – even expose him to more – more ECT-

Steve reaches up, and sets his hand down on Bucky’s left hand. Bucky flinches at the sudden movement, glancing down at Steve’s freckly hand, the small flecks of pigment standing out starkly from his pale hand. His eyebrows raise, and he opens his mouth slightly. 

But when he looks at Steve's face, any words he was thinking at attempting stop in their tracks, half-formed: Steve stares down at the table, eyes unmoving, spoon half way between his bowl and his face. He looks – _shocked? Scared? Heartbroken?_ But – not about what just happened? Why would he reach for Bucky, if that was it? 

Bucky sets his toast down, and slips his left hand from under Steve’s hand: he turns Steve’s hand over and, using motions he learned from Steve himself, begins to gently massage his hand. It takes a fine touch, which he’s honed daily on delicate flowers and brittle stems – but nothing takes more finesse than this, he finds. He doesn’t want to startle Steve, but he needs to bring him around. _Steve is so good at this, for me._

“Steve,” He says, his voice a little gravelly from disuse, given that they haven’t spoken much this morning, aside from the obvious. Steve hasn’t even really chatted to him, too deep in thought – Bucky thought his considerations were about what happened, this morning, but now he’s not so sure. 

Steve doesn’t respond, for a moment: then, he hoarsely says,  
“I don’t want you to go,” 

Bucky’s heart beats in his throat. 

“I don’t want to risk you getting hurt,”

Bucky shakes his head: Steve isn’t looking at him, body still hanging in that same position, with his awful predictions of the future.  
“Not you,” Bucky says. “Not your fault,” 

But Steve just purses his lips. His eyes are far away. Bucky thinks that he never wanted to see that mirrored in Steve – but at least he can say, genuinely and completely, that he knows what he’s thinking. What he’s _feeling_. The helplessness, the rabbit hole of memories and hideous paranoia. Of course Steve believes him, and believes that Natasha will come to the right decision, but he can’t help but wonder if he’ll lose him either way. Bucky knows just how he feels. 

He doesn’t know where what he says next comes from: perhaps the fact that Steve always shortens Bucky to _Buck_. Whatever the case, it slips out:  
“Stevie,” 

Steve blinks, his fingers flexing slightly where they grip his spoon. He blinks a few more times, and sets the spoon down. He stares down at the table, as he says, “No one’s called me that since – since Mom,” He says. 

Bucky bites his lip, and carefully removes his metal hand from Steve’s hand, not wanting to make him even more uncomfortable. He _curses_ that extra syllable. 

But Steve looks up, witnesses his actions, and takes his own: he takes up Bucky’s metal hand, again, and kisses his knuckles. He looks into Bucky’s eyes, as he says,  
“It’s not a bad thing. Just miss her,” Steve tells him softly.  
“Lonely?” Bucky asks. Steve smiles sadly, and nods. 

Bucky moves: Steve lets go of his hand, watching carefully, as he furtively moves so that he’s standing behind Steve’s chair. Carefully, he leans over Steve, his arms wrapping around Steve’s neck, his hands crossing over on Steve’s chest. Steve sighs, and Bucky suppresses his surprise that Steve hasn’t thrown him off; hasn’t pushed him away.

The level of trust he’s showing Bucky, even after all he’s done – all the hurt he’s caused, all the lines he’s crossed, whatever the circumstances – hands coming up to cling to Bucky’s arms, pulling them a little tighter into the hug. Steve’s head twists to one side, turning to Bucky’s right biceps, and planting a wet kiss there. 

Bucky’s hands absent-mindedly scratch at Steve’s chest, softly dragging along the thin fabric of his sleeping vest. Steve shivers, hands tightening a little – Bucky goes rigid, and just _knows_ he’s done something wrong. But when he tries to pull away, Steve’s meagre grip tightens. Not enough to keep him there, but enough to tell him that he doesn’t want him to let go. 

“Just sensitive – it feels . . . Feels – well, I – I have scars,” Steve confesses, his voice barely a whisper. Bucky’s eyebrows raise.  
“What happened?” He asks into Steve’s hair. Steve huffs.  
“Voluntary,” Steve explains. Bucky feels even more confused – until Steve says,  
“Here – I’ve seen yours,” 

He gets up, unwrapping himself reluctantly from Bucky, and stands facing him at arm’s length. Breathing deep, and glancing one last time with trepidation at Bucky, he crosses his arms over to remove his vest. The fabric peels away, revealing a chest adorned with all sorts of beautiful features that make Bucky breathe a little harsher, gasp a little deeper than he thought he would. 

Steve is covered in freckles: his chest, while bereft of hairs, is covered in them. If his face and arms are covered in constellations, then his chest is a galaxy, with far-off nebulae lighting up red, as Steve blushes at his attention. 

His scars are like jagged, browning pink tree branches: they reach across from under his arms, towards his sternum, beneath his pectorals. Bucky realises what the procedure was. He nods. 

“Makes you you,” He remembers. “Keeps you you,”  
“Different to anything you’ve had,” Steve points out. “That was all to make you into . . . _Not_ you,” 

Bucky realises that he’s right: he feels the weight of his left arm keenly, for a moment: but Steve’s just trying to help him put the scars into context. To tell him it was _worth_ it. He shares his thought from earlier:  
“Like branches,” He points from the outside of his chest, to the centre, with both hands. Steve raises his eyebrows, and looks down. He blushes a little harder.  
“. . . Yeah, I – I guess,” He says.  
“Suits you. You love plants,” Bucky tells him, one side of his mouth pulling up into a grin.  
“Hah, hah,” Steve says sarcastically, although he’s beaming, by now. “You, uh-” He scratches the back of his head with one hand, further messing up his bedhead hair, as he finishes, “You can touch. If you like,” 

Bucky feels his face grow hot. He touches it, with his right hand, and confirms that the sensation is real. He licks his lips, and nods once, before closing the gaps between them. 

He watches Steve take a sharp breath, as his left hand takes hold of his ribs, thumb stroking the scars; his right hand does the same, but the cool of the metal makes Steve’s nipples peak. Bucky’s eyebrows, though he thought they couldn’t grow any higher, make a good effort. Steve breathes deep.  
“Sorry,” Bucky says. “S-sorry,”  
“It’s normal,” Steve says. “What do you think?” He asks, half-joking. Bucky pauses.  
“. . . They’re you,” Bucky says simply, and wonders if Steve knows that that's a by-word, here, for _beautiful_. Steve looks up from beneath his brow, face flushed now, large eyes gazing directly into Bucky’s. Bucky feels a little like a deer in the headlights, so close to Steve, so intimately pressed up against him, _especially after what happened earlier_. 

“W-we n-n-need to g-get ready for – the d-deliveries s-” Bucky mumbles. That’s when Steve kisses him. Two can play at kissing first. 

It’s longer than the one from before: the one where Bucky shut his eyes, and just let his body do what felt right. As is obvious after earlier, that’s not always the best option – but he certainly remembers, now, that he used to love this. The hotness, the closeness, the softness, or the _biting, forceful need-_

Steve withdraws, judging Bucky’s reaction by his face. His eyes blink a lot. That’s a good thing, maybe.  
“Are you okay?” Steve asks quietly. Bucky nods vigorously. Steve glances down, his eyes lingering on Bucky’s trousers.  
“I’m not mad about earlier,” Steve reminds him, equally quietly. There’s no need to be loud, given how close they are. “Just – surprised. Need to get comfortable – not that I’m not comfortable, with you, I just – I – give me time,”  
“I didn’t mean to do it,” Bucky tells him again, his tone somewhat pleading.  
“I know, Buck. You’ll figure it out. We’ll figure it out, together,” Steve reassures him. He really hopes they have time. 

Bucky gives a deep sigh, some of the tension leaving his body. Steve presses a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth, and walks away:  
“You’re not wrong, though. We have to get going,” 

Bucky smiles, despite earlier feeling like he’d never be happy again; like he’d never be seen the same way ever again, by Steve; like he’d always be a freak. Because Steve doesn’t care. Steve knows they’ll figure it out. So maybe they will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FURTHER WARNINGS 
> 
> In this chapter Bucky has a sexual dream while sleeping next to Steve, and ends up completely unintentionally rubbing against him while he's asleep. He wakes up when he hears Steve's surprise, and immediately stops, and feels extremely guilty and confused by his own bodily reactions because he hasn't had any sexual experiences in seven decades (due to medication, Hydra treatment etc).


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is!! I'm here!! Sorry for worrying you guys. But I am away next week so it's touch and go whether or not I'll be able to post on time. Fair warning. I hate real life. Yikes [[sweating emoji
> 
> WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: Steve thinks about previous transphobic abuse in this chapter, including misgendering and a brief mention of physical abuse.

Work is, surprisingly for Bucky, less tense than it has been: this in itself, though, starts to trouble him. He fears that it’s a result of his _mistake_ earlier. 

Despite their reconciliation, Bucky finds it much harder to look Steve in the eye, for a little while: he does what Steve tells him, works as hard as he can, and gets jobs that would usually take Steve all day done in one morning – as usual. He even answers some tricky math questions for Steve, after he catches him mumbling sums over his thick, ring-bound ledger. 

When he hears a calculation clearly, he barks out the answer. 

Steve looks up at him, eyebrows raised: he stands up straight, from where he was leaning on his elbows on the counter, before; he pulls up his thick-rimmed black glasses, until they sit on top of his head.  
“You’re good at math?” He asks, surprised. Bucky doesn’t meet his gaze, staring down at Steve’s handwriting, but smiles all the same, feeling pride bubble up inside of him.  
“Equations. Needed it,” Bucky explains.  
“What for?” Steve asks. Bucky licks his lips, and shifts slightly.  
“Coriolis effect,” Bucky says, taking up his spray bottle, and coating the plants beside him with a much-needed fine mist of moisture. Steve snorts.  
“I hate to tell you, Buck, but I failed physics,” He admits. “Good at biology, though. Top of the class in that one,” He adds. Bucky smiles at that, before a look of concentration takes over his face again, as he tries to word his explanation delicately. 

“Useful . . . In the field. Trajectories,”  
“Guns?” Steve asks.  
“Only called guns when they’re on watercraft. Rifles,” Bucky says, and Steve notices how he’s looking at him head-on, now; he’s not stuttering. He’s not on the back-foot, in this conversation: he’s in his element.  
“What, like . . . You were – you’re a sniper?” Steve asks, sounding a little excited. Bucky nods. 

“Amongst other specialities. Good at all ranges. But-” He pauses, setting the bottle down on Steve’s desk, and lightly taking his pen from his willing hand. He scrawls down an equation that Steve can’t quite read.  
“-used to have to calculate it myself. Curvature, distance – add that to the wind. Now there are machines. But I am a machine. So I don’t need them,” Bucky says, finally looking up and into Steve’s eyes. Steve shushes him:  
“No, you’re not,” He denies. “But you are a nerd, though,” 

Bucky frowns. He wonders if Steve is insulting him, or using a term of endearment – _maybe both?_

“. . . Never mind,” Steve says, with an amused smile. Bucky’s face softens too.  
The next customer that comes in, Steve lets Bucky tell him how much change they require, as their bill comes to an odd amount: what with a bunch of flowers they’re buying, plus a couple of Bucky’s _pride posies_. Everyone always comments on them, even if they don’t buy them. 

Bucky glances at the money handed over, as Steve mutters the total, and immediately tells him the change needed.  
“You’re better cut out for this than I am,” Steve tells Bucky, hands on hips, when the customer leaves the store. “Kind of wish I was the one looking after the plants, not wasting away behind the desk,” He laments.  
“I’m better at hauling things around,” Bucky says, and Steve smirks at his confidence. “And . . . I don’t – don’t talk well,” He says, stuttering slightly when he considers his own fault, therefore making it worse: a self-fulfilling prophecy. Steve shakes his head.

“You don’t have to. They usually don’t want a reply. Just a yes, or a no – I guess you could just nod, or shake your head . . . I’d be here the whole day. What do you say? Trade places for a while?”  
Bucky slows to a stop; he sets down the secateurs he was using to preen the plants, and takes in Steve’s posture: open, trusting, hopeful. Steve really does miss being hands-on with the plants – but not, of course, the heavy lifting. _I can still help him with that, when I see him struggling. He’s probably never going to ask me outright in case he feels like he's interrupting._

He nods, with a smile, his anxiety overtaken for a moment. 

Steve turns on the stereo, connecting his computer to the beat-up player with a threadbare wire, and letting the music flow undeterred from the speakers: by the sound of it, it’s a mix he put together himself. It can’t be all one artist. 

Bucky works dutifully on Steve’s ledger, doing the sums Steve has neglected to do for the past couple of days – to be fair, they’ve both been very distracted, and Bucky’s more than impressed that the shop has been open, let alone doing a roaring trade – and writing the answers as neatly as possible in their allotted space. He writes small notes to Steve in the margins, having to cross out the few times he accidentally writes in Cyrillic, rather than using characters Steve will understand. 

When he finishes, a while later, he looks up to see Steve mouthing along to the latest song, hands resting on a plant pot, looking out of the window. He looks concerned, when he thinks Bucky isn’t watching – for both of them, and for the shop, probably. Bucky wants to wipe away the lines of concern from his face. He wants to straighten out his spine, and massage the tension from his every muscle. He owes it to Steve. He owes him everything. But more than that - he _wants_ to care for him. Bucky's not used to considering what he wants. It's liberating, in a way. 

He thinks back at length, to a time when he felt this free: it’s hard to say that he ever was. There are childhood rules, and workplace rules, and the draft – the army, the imprisonment, the restrictions the army tried (and usually failed in) placing upon him, and then – then _Hydra_ , the great binding trap that controlled him for so long, still lurking beneath his eyelids, still undulating beneath his skin. 

But something that always used to make him feel more free – when he snuck out, when he dated boys and girls and people who didn't fit, when the kids sat around the wireless and talked in hushed voices about having to learn German someday, and he wanted to calm them down . . . There was something to distract them. 

As if to encourage him, the track changes to one he’s heard Steve singing: it has soft guitars, and gentle male vocals, and it talks about New York, and Steve likes it – so he loves it. He rounds the cash desk, and approaches Steve: he telegraphs his movements with a small cough, alerting Steve to his proximity, before he places a hand on his shoulder. 

Steve turns around, eyebrows raised: “Done already?”  
“Been hours,” Bucky tells him, his tone doubtful, not believing that Steve really lost track of time already. But he looks a little shaken, so Bucky doesn’t dwell on it. He does what he came for. 

He takes Steve’s left hand in his right, and holds it to one side, with Steve's arm gently bent; snakes his left arm around Steve’s shoulders, to bring him close. Steve watches him, allowing him to manipulate his limbs, looking very taken aback – like he doesn’t know what’s happening. 

“Bucky?” He asks uncertainly.  
“Always used to help me feel – free,” Bucky says, and gently begins to sway from side to side, bringing Steve along with him.  
“Buck-” Steve says, with a sad smile, as he realises what's happening. “I can’t dance,”  
“I can,” Bucky says, and he thinks it’s true. It feels true. It feels like his body knows what to do – but then he realises, “. . . Only know the women’s moves. They taught me,” He admits. He remembers older girls from his block, and trans girls at clubs he was too young for, and chorus girls he let have him any which way they liked. He blinks hard. 

“Just as well,” Steve says in a small voice. “I think I’ve had enough of learning to act like a woman,” He pauses, for a moment, before saying, “Seriously – I don’t know how to dance. Don’t even have good rhythm. Balance problems, and-”  
“My feet. Stand on my feet,” Bucky instructs him. He glances down at Bucky’s feet, clad in Sam’s sneakers, and wonders perhaps a little needlessly if he’s going to crush Bucky.  
“You don’t mind?” He asks. Bucky shakes his head and so, feeling a little ridiculous, he climbs up. 

It feels strange, to be a little taller, and get a more direct look into Bucky’s eyes: they’re closer, of course, but not quite nose-to-nose. There’s so little space between them, though, that if Steve were to stand on his toes, he’d be right in Bucky’s face, kissing wet lips, skin brushing against softening stubble. 

But Steve tucks his head into Bucky’s chest, resting it to one side, and letting his eyes slip shut. He gets lost in the music: the gentle plucking of guitar strings, and vocals low and deep, as if whispered into a microphone all those years ago. _The only living boy in New York_. 

He starts to hum along, and he feels Bucky’s fingers cling a little tighter to his own, for a second, before relaxing again: Bucky’s chin rests on top of his head, amongst his wild blond hair, as he gets used to the sensation of Steve’s humming permeating both of their bodies with its soft vibrations. In that moment, they could be one. Close to a century between them, but still somehow born to arrive at this moment here, in a flower shop in Brooklyn, in 2016. Two people who don’t know how to fix anything, don’t even know where to start – but somehow, they’re holding themselves together, and they’re holding each other together, too. It's all they can do to try. 

When Steve lifts his head, Bucky’s chin lifts to let him look up again: but, though they’re still moving, and Bucky’s feet are still stepping beneath Steve’s, his eyes have drifted shut, too. He’s lost in the moment: the sweetness and lightness of it, dispelling everything that might come before and after, for a time. 

For that small moment, it’s just him and Steve, Steve and him, to the end of the song, and beyond. Him and Steve, to the end of the line. 

The song changes, and Bucky’s steps slow to a stop: a more modern song, but still folky, and gentle enough for the moment – the long, gentle minute or so; the infinity it takes for Bucky’s eyelids to rise, as a man sings gently for no one but them. Steve almost breaks away to turn it over, but he decides against it, because Bucky doesn’t seem to mind it. 

They both lean forward at once, and it’s hard to tell who initiated the contact: it’s hard to stop, in fact, when they start to kiss. 

But it ends. The bell above the door rings, and they have to break apart. It’s a memory, now, but at least it’s contributing to the _good_ memory pile, in both of their heads. Maybe it can help even out the bad, and the horror, and the abuse. 

Maybe they can help each other, still, even if they end up torn apart. 

Steve knows he’ll always have the memory of slow-dancing one sunny afternoon in the shop with Bucky Barnes. Bucky just wishes he could know if he’ll be able to keep that same memory forever. He doesn’t know that he could stand it, if it were taken from him. 

_They’ve stolen enough_ , he thinks, watching Steve pin a bisexual pride posy to a waiting blushing teenager, clinging to his skateboard like a lifeline, before pressing a crumpled note down on the counter. 

_They can take me, but they can’t take Steve from me._

_I won’t let that happen._

-

Steve only protests with a weak grip, as Bucky gets up, that night: he only scratches a little at his stomach, and grumbles sleepily, as Bucky smiles down at his slack face. He’s not really awake, it’s just the illusion of one of Steve’s stubborn turns. He settles immediately, his snuffling snores returning to their usual quiet tidal noises. It reminds Bucky of the sea. He thinks he used to love the sea. It makes him think of something soft, something sweet, something exciting, but he can’t quite pinpoint what. All these things he’ll tell Steve, when he wakes. 

He goes to the toilet quickly, washing his hands meticulously, before looking in the mirror: he’s taken aback by his own appearance, strangely. Gradual changes are hard to mark, but because he usually avoids his own reflection in case it causes him to _crash_ , the changes he sees seem to have sprung upon him, out of nowhere: his face is much less sunken, and his pectorals are bigger, and sprinkled in small springing brown curls; his biceps and triceps have swollen, apparently. He figures it’s something to do with eating more, and eating things of substance, as well as constantly lifting things, all day long. He chances pressing a tentative hand to his stomach, but finds that it feels _weird_ – it’s still hard, beneath the flesh, but it has nowhere near the same harsh leanness. He steels himself and traces his abs, and finds that, strangely, they’re _softer_. He’s broader, _bigger_ than he remembers, from that first time Steve cajoled him into using his shower. He feels powerful, but not in a dangerous way - ready to defend, rather than attack, at any given moment. 

_The door._

The door downstairs opens and shuts quickly: Bucky remains completely still, eyes trained on their reflection in the mirror, but largely unseeing. His ears are doing all the visualising all he needs – _where is that noise coming from? Whose are those footsteps? – Different weight distribution to Steve’s, and the door opened and shut. But – but the person didn’t smash anything to get inside._

_. . . The person successfully broke in. I wouldn’t have even heard them, if not for being up already. A professional._

_Natasha._

His left hand almost cracks the sink, before he withdraws it, and clenches it by his side, as he does with his right; he takes in his appearance, and realises this is just one of the many things he’s going to lose: this much healthier visage is something he’d give up in a second, though, just to stay with Steve. And his speech – he’d trade in his progress there in a heartbeat, for remaining silent at Steve’s side, a statuesque sounding board for Steve’s many delightful thoughts, and songs. He’d be Steve’s protector, his dance teacher, his employee, his friend – his _partner_ , if only he had time. 

If only Natasha wasn’t here to take him quickly in the night. Ripping the band-aid off quick. 

Her footsteps are heavy, as she ascends the stairs: but she makes an attempt to be quiet, at least. Perhaps she’s holding something heavy. _Restraints. For you._

He makes his way to the kitchen, standing in the doorway, facing down the hall, waiting for her to appear: he hears the lock clicking, and assumes that she’s picking it. He closes his eyes. This is easier for Steve. He’ll just be a memory. He hopes it’s a happy one. He is ready to comply. 

“Whoa,” 

He flinches at the voice: _male. Low. In awe?_

He opens his eyes: in front of him is a man he immediately recognises, and he freezes. 

“Natasha told me – she said, she tried to describe, but . . . Whoa,” The man says, his voice keeping as low as possible, so as not to wake Steve, Bucky presumes.  
“You’re Sam,” Bucky states, keeping his voice low, and his gaze even. _Natasha has sent him to subdue Bucky_ – he has no idea why, or even how Sam is here, but that has to be it. He has to confirm that’s the case. “What are you doing here?”  
“I live here . . . ?” Sam says, raising an eyebrow in his confusion. 

Bucky takes in his appearance: while he isn’t wearing standard US military garb, of what Bucky’s seen of it in the past few years on missions, and been educated about by his handlers in the context of chains of command, and of disguises . . . His outfit is paramilitary. It contains blue tones – blue, and red, and the occasional silver stripe. He’s wearing some kind of heavy-duty back-pack – no, machinery. Bucky espies at least two submachine guns. He swallows. 

“Desertion?” He asks.  
“What?!” Sam hisses, before shaking his head. “No – listen, I’m here because I need your help – and . . .” He pauses, shifting on his feet, eyes flicking towards his and Steve’s bedroom door. “Because I wanted to see him - just for a second. I needed to see he was at least happy, before I did this. In case the worst happened,”  
“What are you going to do?” Bucky asks, his stance becoming much more defensive. Needs his help – that could mean anything. Possibly _coming quietly_ , not making a fuss while he's restrained, and forced into imprisonment. Bucky’s used to that by now.  
“Your intel checked out. Nat set up a covert taskforce – you were right. What you told her was scary accurate,” Sam tells him. Bucky frowns. “You have to be telling the truth,”  
“I did. I am,” Bucky confirms quickly and eagerly, nodding.  
“Good,” Sam says, grinning encouragingly – clearly, he’s been warned about Bucky’s behaviour; what he’s seeing right now is doing nothing to dispel what Natasha told him, most likely. “Because we’re gonna need more than one Captain America on this mission,”

-

Steve doesn’t think anything is wrong that morning. He’s grown used to a variety of situations when he wakes up, these past couple of months: this past week, when he wakes up to open the shop, Bucky is either there in bed with him, in Sam’s bed, or out wondering the apartment or the shop. So he’s not worried when Bucky’s body isn’t entwined with his when he wakes up. A little disappointed, maybe – but not worried. Not yet. 

He stretches, takes a few minutes staring at the wall in the 5 am light, blinking hard to clear his blurry vision – blurrier than normal, anyhow – and thinks about the day ahead. He wonders if today is the day Natasha will come back, but quickly banishes that train of thought to the darker recesses of his mind. He can’t afford to think like that, or he’ll just freeze up, like he did yesterday at the breakfast table. That scared both Bucky, and himself. Reminded him of years gone by. He never wants that feeling to stem from something as positive as his relationship with Bucky, ever again. 

Finally he gets up, grabbing his towel – he remembers that today he has to inject T again and sighs. He doesn’t mind it, but it does add to his daily routine. At least he doesn’t have any deliveries scheduled today. Yesterday’s plants are still healthy, thanks to his and Bucky’s care. When they weren’t slow dancing to Simon and Garfunkel, that is. Steve smiles, blushing, though he’s completely alone, at the memory. He thinks about it as he showers, quickly, and gets dressed. 

He makes his way to the kitchen, glancing toward the now-steamy bathroom as he does so: he finds Bucky in neither. He’s not in on the couch, in the adjoining living room, either. Steve is glad, honestly, as it means that he won’t be around to watch Steve injecting himself. No matter how many times he watches it, the sight of a needle still makes him shift uncomfortably, and go a little whiter. Steve tries to do it when he’s not looking and, considering the fact he must be downstairs in the shop, or in the back office, or outside talking to Simon, Steve takes the opportunity to inject without him there as a blessing. 

He makes a cup of coffee for himself, and some ginger tea for Bucky – in case it’s the now infrequent nausea that made him get up this time – stirring the cups thoughtfully as he goes. _Bucky knew the women’s steps to that dance yesterday. And he wore that pride posey, again. The purple, white and green one._

He smiles, his heart aching a little at the fact that he was able to do something to get Bucky in touch with his true self: he remembers what it was like, to realise he was trans. After years of people yelling at him, harassing him, calling him awful names, referring to him as an _it_ , physically hurting him . . . It felt so _good_ , to realise he was part of a community. To feel like he had siblings, who he could meet at pride; to feel like he deserved to be somewhere, deserved to be understood. Having his Mom support him, and having Sam always there for him was great – but sometimes, you just need understanding from someone who knows what it’s like. 

And that’s what he hopes he can be for Bucky. Not just – not just someone he clearly feels _attracted_ to, but someone who understands him. And giving him the words to describe himself, and an ear to listen to those words, is something Steve is more than happy to do. 

He carries the hot drinks downstairs, calling, “Bucky? You in here?”, as he reaches the shop. 

There’s no reply, but Bucky isn’t one to shout, and Steve’s hearing isn’t up to much. He yawns again as he sets the mugs down on the cash desk in the meagre light, given that the blinds are shut – a precaution he’s taken overnight since Natasha visited, so as not to alert anyone to any activity in the shop that would cause them to get the authorities involved. He doesn’t need the police asking any questions about Bucky. That would just be a can of worms. 

He casts his gaze around: Bucky isn’t anywhere else in the shop, and a quick glance shows Steve that he’s not in the tiny office at the back, either. He frowns, abandoning the drinks, and making is way to the side door that leads off into the alleyway. The door is locked, when he gets to it. His frown deepening, he opens the door up, and steps outside. 

There’s no one there. The place is empty, the smell of rotting flowers and plant matter waiting for compost collection permeating the air: there aren’t any obvious footsteps in the dirt, but then again, it hasn’t rained for a while, so there isn’t a lot of dirt to make obvious tracks in. 

He feels himself start to panic. _Not in the shop. Not in the alleyway. Not in the apartment. Not in Sam’s bed. Not in my arms. He’s gone._

_He’s gone._

_Gone._

Steve continues to look around, movements furtive and scared, as if Bucky might just appear out of thin air, to tell him _it’s okay, stepped out, thank you for the drink_. He jumps when he feels something against his leg – it’s Simon, waiting for some kind of petting, as Bucky would usually offer him. Steve’s eyes bulge, staring down into his yellow eyes, and he meows once, insistently. Steve thinks about all the cooing Russian Bucky has spoken to Simon, and how much he loves him. 

_This is his neighbourhood. Everyone and everything about it wants him here. It’s where he belongs. Here, in Brooklyn. With me, I think._

_He belongs with me. He can’t have lied. He can’t have been wrong. I had proof – the Rosenbergs had proof – please, no – Natasha can’t have betrayed me. Can’t have locked Bucky up, after everything he’s been through._

_Please, no._

Steve steps back indoors, frantically looking around yet again for any sign of Bucky: he searches the entire shop, looking for signs of a struggle – but there’s nothing. No broken stems, no shattered glass, no spilled water, no mulch cast around – nothing. 

_He went quietly. Why would he do that?_

He does the only thing he can think to do, at that time: he picks up the phone and, finding her number scrawled on the margin of a page of his ledger from a while back, phones the number Natasha gave him, should he ever want to talk. _The same one I called when I wanted her to help me move Bucky, when he passed out because I told him who he used to be so carelessly, so suddenly, God, why didn’t I break it to him slowly?_

_Why didn’t I introduce that to him gently? Then he wouldn’t have passed out, and I wouldn’t have had to call for help, and Natasha would have never seen his arm, and she never would have come for him, and – and he’d still be here._

_This is my fault. I’ve got Bucky locked away – or worse – with the same people who have tortured him for close to a century. This is on me, now._

The line connects, but it’s just an automated voice telling him that Natasha can’t be reached. 

_And that’s it. I don’t have anywhere to go. I don’t know what to do. I can’t call the police. I don’t have Natasha. Sam is still overseas, and Mom is gone._

_I’m alone again. But it’s all my fault._

_Why couldn’t he have left me some clue? Why did he have to go quietly , when he fought so hard before?_

But when he looks again at the cash desk, he knows why. He sets down the phone slowly, just staring. 

He failed to notice it before, but he sees it now: there’s a single white rose on the counter, fresh as of yesterday, lying beside the small collection of pride posies. It stands out, a stark white, in the dim yellow glow that the morning light lets through the windows. He plucks it from the desk, and stares at it, mouth hanging open in grief. 

_For me. He didn’t want to hurt me. He didn’t want to cause me distress, or have me feel bad, or get physically hurt by whoever it was. Now he’s gone somewhere I can’t follow – someplace I don’t even know where he is._

He sinks down behind the cash desk, back leaning against the counter, sitting down where Bucky slept those few months ago, when they first met: when the police came calling, and Steve defended Bucky for the very first time, because _something_ about him screamed vulnerability, while his whole body looked like it could crush him in a second. He imagines that it smells of Bucky – of course it doesn’t, but his mind is torturing him. _Soon enough, nothing will smell of him, anymore. Not your room, not your bed, not the clothes he’s been wearing. And then he’ll truly he gone forever._

He cradles the rose to his chest, staring at the wall in the small space behind the cash desk where he’s sitting. Suddenly, he feels something contact him – he glances down, not really afraid at that moment, and sees that the cat managed to follow him inside, slipping through the door, or through an open window. It headbutts his knee, which is brought up to his chest. He lets go of the rose, with one hand, and strokes his small head. He feels sleek, and clean, like he’s got someone looking after him – but he still wants attention. _From Bucky, probably._

“He’s gone,” Steve tells the cat, though his words waver on his tongue. The cat just stares at him.  
“He’s gone!” He says a little louder, and its eyes widen. “He’s not coming back,” 

The cat just stares on, before settling down and sitting next to him, purring loudly as it sits with its body wedged right up to Steve’s side, like it doesn’t know he’s done something awful to the person he loves. 

Steve stokes the cat until it falls asleep right next to him. It reminds him of Bucky’s head, in his lap, as they used to watch TV together: how he used to shift positions, to look up at Steve, rather than the screen, because he liked the view better. Steve bet he thought he didn’t notice. He did. He just let Bucky do it without commenting. 

If he’d known how little time was left, he’d have lay down next to Bucky, and kissed him until the sun rose. He’d have taken days off, and taken him everywhere he wanted; fed him everything he remembered eating, and told him everything he wanted to know, and just held him and never let go. If that’s what Bucky wanted. 

He’d have given him whatever he wanted. But, if he’s honest with himself, he thinks that what they had was probably exactly what Bucky wanted. This was heaven, for him, probably: Steve realises that, now, remembering all the little things that he missed the first time around. And it was for Steve, too. 

He didn’t realise that until now. It’s hard to appreciate what you have, in the moment. 

_. . . But you can fight to get it back._

Steve sets his jaw. Placing the rose back on the side, he reaches up and tugs on his ledger, retrieving it, and doing the same with his phone, trying not to wake up the cat with his movement. He remains silent and still, breathing deeply. 

He grabs a pen, and searches through his ledger. If he can’t talk to someone directly about where Bucky went, then he can use his contacts in the neighbourhood, and ask them about what happened last night. _There are so many people who can’t mind their own business, in this neighbourhood, God bless them. Someone has to have seen something._

_Someone must know something about Bucky Barnes._


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm here!! I am here. Sorry this is later in the day than usual, it's been . . . An incredibly busy day and week, yikes. Again a warning that the next update might be a little later than thursday. I mean, I don't know if it will or not, and it hasn't yet, but there's a first time for everything. Ah, I'm getting ahead of myself because I'm nervous to post this.
> 
> WARNINGS: sexual! content! Non-gendered and masculine terms for various genitalia are used. The 'traffic light' system of safe words is discussed and adhered to (that's red for stop, green for go, and amber for slow down). Full consent is given on both sides though it is a difficult experience at times. More detailed warnings at the end of the chapter author's note!!

It’s dark. 

The cat left a couple of hours ago, but Steve remained, still scribbling in his ledger. He’s got half the neighbourhood on the lookout for Bucky: they’ve all passed by, at some point, so they all know what he looks like. Hell, most of them have been in for flowers, or to deliver something to Steve, or to ask him to keep an eye out for various things. They know Steve – knew his Mom, knew Sam and his family, too – so he’s calling in all the favours he can. 

Still, he doesn’t have anything concrete, right now. No one appears to have seen anything – he guesses that’s what he gets, for bringing a spy into his home. But if Bucky is spotted anywhere, doing _anything_ , in the entirety of Brooklyn – he’ll be the first to know. 

He’s sketching, at the moment: he’s having trouble getting Bucky’s lips right, but they have to be _perfect_ , for his missing posters. His pictures of Bucky wouldn’t really do, for posters – they’re more for sketching value, and usually candid, though kept with his permission. He didn’t really care about that kind of thing. 

And there Steve goes, thinking in the past tense. He hates it. 

He refocuses on the lips. The way they turn up at the corners, even when he’s sad; the shine of them, and the dip of his cupid’s bow. Steve’s never had great vision, but he’s already starting to worry that the admittedly faulty image he has of Bucky’s face has faded already, with his panic, and just hours apart. He’s afraid of losing even the memory of him. 

_This must be how Bucky feels, all the time. Not wanting to lose it all again. Not wanting to-_

_. . . Disappear._

There’s a click. Steve’s ears prick up slightly, and his fingers freeze, tip of his pen hovering above the paper. Though his bones are screaming at him, and his muscles spasm and seize up all the time, he’s still on the floor behind the counter. If this is a robbery, then he’s got no weapon. 

But it was just a click. It’s not-

There’s a thud. 

Steve’s eyes flick up to stare straight ahead: he never opened the blinds, today, but there’s orange light from the streetlamps outside beaming into the shop. _The door is open – that was so quiet. Better than my usual class of thief_ , he thinks, bitterly. 

Another thud, and another; a click. The light fades, covered once again by the blind on the door. The room is plunged back into semi-darkness, illuminated only by the gentle glow that the blinds let through. 

Steve licks his lips, trying not to make any noise: his heart beats in his mouth. There’s no sound, for a while, and Steve wishes his heart wouldn’t thunder so hard, _what if they hear me? I can’t fight anywhere near as good without a weapon. I can’t get away anywhere near as scot-free, as if he were with me._

“You can come out, Stevie,” 

Steve’s gasp for breath takes him completely by surprise: he feels as if he’s been slammed face-first into a wall, completely blindsided, with the air knocked out of his chest. His slack fingers drop his pen. The ledger follows, papers falling carelessly from between its pages, as Steve leaps up as fast as his legs will allow him. 

He makes it around the counter and to the figure standing a few feet in front of the shop door, before his legs give out, aching too much to support him at that moment, and probably for several moments after. He used to get the same thing when he hid from the landlord, in a crawlspace in their old apartment, before they moved in here with Sam. That guy liked to stay for ages, before he stopped hitting on Steve’s Mom, and trying to pressure her to pay her rent in advance. Steve wanted to punch his face until there was nothing left. Especially when he called him _sweetheart, darling, good girl, pretty young lady._

Steve took to hiding, when he came round, on his Mom’s instructions, after that. 

What he’s feeling, right now, is somehow sweeter than the memory of his Mom telling him _it’s okay, Stevie, you can come out now, he’s gone, come here._

He stumbles, and Bucky catches him by the arms, gripping onto him tightly with gloved hands: Steve can’t make out what he’s wearing, too well, but it’s nothing that he had before; the gloves have good grip, though they’re a little harsh against Steve’s skin, where they’re holding him up. 

“Bucky?” Steve asks hopefully, gazing up at his face: after all, it looks like him, but Steve can’t know if they’ve already got to him; made him, the best version of _him_ that Bucky himself actually enjoys being, _disappear_.

But when he looks up, he feels his heart leap: Bucky’s smiling down at him, a sad expression, but one that tells Steve that he’s there – _there’s someone home, and it’s him, it’s my Bucky in there._

“It’s me,” He tells Steve, and Steve thinks that he might be dreaming. Today has been hell, and he anticipated _weeks, months, years_ more, without any closure, or sight of Bucky, ever again; just memories left, just sketches, and those old sepia pictures from the bakers, and those in history books and on war propaganda. They never got Bucky’s likeness. 

Steve’s tried, though. He reaches up with one hand, and brushes his finger joints against Bucky’s cheek; the tips of his fingers brush against Bucky’s stubble and, as softly as possible, against his smiling lips in the semi-darkness. He wants to know them even when Bucky’s gone. He wants to know them in the dark, and blind, and alone. He wants to keep them with him forever. 

“Where did you go?” Steve asks, voice wracked with anguish.  
“It’s over,” Bucky says, and Steve feels like he’s floating – this can’t be real, it’s not real, this can’t happen, not to them. Love is real, it’s natural, but not for them. They can’t catch a break, so how can this be happening? 

“What?” Steve asks, breath obstructed by a lump in his throat; a pressure that swells, until every single word is a struggle.  
“They’re gone. No more,” 

Steve swallows, feeling a tear fall from his face: rather than wiping it away, he tucks a lock of hair behind Bucky’s ear. His lips quiver, because this can’t be happening. He never imagined Bucky like this: the darkest blood, not his own, sticky on his skin; his hair in a small bun, at the base of his skull, wild from action. He never imagined him not being used for Hydra’s purpose, but for him to kill them. He thought he’d end up back with them, for sure – tortured, and imprisoned, the version of himself that he loves to be killed over and over, after growing back, like a frozen Prometheus, forever stuck in servitude. 

But it never came to pass. 

“No more?” He repeats. Bucky shakes his head, and Steve can see that, while his eyes are shining in the low light, he’s not crying. He’s too exhausted, maybe. He’s too happy, maybe. His mind is too quiet, simply watching Steve, perhaps.  
“I’m free. They let me stay,” Bucky says, and it’s too good to be true. Steve’s mind is somewhere else, right now, floating high above and trying not to completely write the situation off as a fantasy. 

But then Bucky leans in: he whispers, “I can stay with you, Steve. I love you,” 

And his kiss is desperate: Steve’s knees buckle, again, with the stress of it all; the happiness, and the punch that raw emotion packs, even the good kind. He’s not expecting Bucky to pick him up, hands under his thighs, and carry him towards the front door. He presses Steve up to it, kissing him deeply, quickly, needily, as if they don’t have all the time in the world now. 

Steve’s eyes widen, and he gasps into Bucky’s mouth, because he simply wasn’t expecting it: but the jolt his body gets, from being whisked up into Bucky’s arms, man-handled but with care, is enough to snap him right back to the situation at hand. 

And that situation, he remembers just a few seconds too late, is that Bucky his pressing his whole body up against his, between his thighs, gripping them as gently as possible while still holding him up. _Yes – that will do to wake him the fuck up._

Steve’s arms, where they were simply pressed up against the blind, come down to cradle Bucky’s cheeks; he kisses deeply, managing to suck Bucky’s lip into his mouth, feeling Bucky’s controlled breaths, so at odds with the fervour of his kissing. His tongue is hot like blood, and his teeth bite like a scalpel, but he’s no weapon – he’s not for anything other than this. Doing exactly what he wants, with whoever he wants, because who he wants is Steve, and what he wants, Steve wants too. 

Steve pushes his face away, panting slightly: he looks into Bucky’s dark eyes, pupils blown wide in the dark and the urgency, as Steve hoarsely confesses:  
“Love you too, Buck,” 

Bucky dives back in like someone coming back up for air: his body moves in a rhythm, Steve notices, that isn’t all too different from the way that he moved when he was asleep, just a couple of days ago. Something has awoken in him, for sure – but Steve knows it’s in him too, now. He knows from the way he throbs all over, fingers twitching with inaction. 

With newly-found caution, he reaches down to where Bucky’s hips are grinding with his right hand: he presses it up against Bucky’s crotch, pulling back to watch his face with a questioning expression. Bucky’s hips slow and, eyes a little wide, he looks down with an almost comical look of surprise. It’s like he didn’t even realise – he was just caught up in the moment. 

“Is this what you want?” Steve asks. 

Bucky’s mouth falls open, and his head jerks up: finally, he nods.  
“I have to hear you say yes,” Steve tells him, slipping his hand up to pull it away – but even that movement gets Bucky’s hips stuttering. He nods vigorously, before interpreting Steve’s words properly.  
“Yes. This is what I want. I want this. With you,” Bucky tells him eagerly. Steve takes that as a yes, but he can’t help but ask again.  
“Are you sure?” He whispers. Bucky nods again.  
“Yes,” He says, leaning in to kiss Steve’s neck. “Yes – want you,” He says, pressing more kisses between his words, before they deteriorate into whispered nothings, just syllables, Steve’s name, _please, want you_. He whispers more words – in more languages than Steve can even identify – than Steve would bet he’s even said the whole time he’s known him. 

Steve’s head tips back, and he bears his neck, placing his hand against Bucky’s crotch again for extra friction. Slowly, he starts to massage the rough, black material, feeling that Bucky is getting hard underneath his trousers and pants. Bucky’s eyes widen, where Steve can’t see them – but he doesn’t need to see, when Bucky starts outright thrusting, and lets a stifled groan slip. 

“Shh,” Steve murmurs, tilting his head down again, and meeting Bucky’s gaze. “. . . We should go upstairs,” He reminds Bucky. He nods once: then, as if it’s no big deal, he simply turns around, and carries Steve to the stairwell; up the stairs, while Steve clings on tightly, _not_ used to the feeling of being carried around like one of the bigger plant pots Bucky usually shifts for him. He realises, with a semi-delightful stab to the gut, that he kind of enjoys it. 

He’s never liked feeling small – always having associated it with being feminine – but in Bucky’s arms, it feels like he’s not making any assumptions. He’s a man, and this doesn’t make him any less of one. 

Bucky carries him through to their bedroom, and lays Steve down on the bed gently: Steve suddenly realises he’s probably a wreck, from a day spent frantically searching for Bucky; crying, not least a few minutes ago. Bucky removes his shirt, showing off his scars, but somehow it only makes Steve blush harder about showing his own. His arms fold across his chest self-consciously, as Bucky takes off his boots and socks, and climbs onto the bed in front of him, one leg between Steve’s thighs. He frowns, as he sees Steve bite his lip and blush. 

“. . . Do _you_ want this?” He checks.  
“Yes,” Steve says immediately. “I . . . I’m just-”

He pauses. 

“Not confident,” He says. “With my chest,” 

Bucky licks his lips. 

“But I like it,”  
“I know,” Steve responds, but bites his lip. Above him, he sees Bucky’s chest rise and fall in quick, controlled movements.  
“. . . Just your vest?” Bucky asks. Steve considers it, for a moment, before nodding: so Bucky leans down, and takes off Steve’s jumper, leaving him in just his vest on top. His dark gaze, only semi-visible in the dark of Steve’s room via the odd, far away streetlamp, fixes on Steve’s pants. 

“Go on,” Steve whispers, though he feels like his heart is in his mouth. Bucky dives in like there’s nothing else he wants other than to gently remove Steve’s sweatpants, revealing his boxer briefs underneath, as well as Steve’s very pale, also freckled legs. They become a lot redder, however, under Bucky’s gaze. Bucky’s night-vision is a lot better than Steve’s. 

Squirming under the attention, Steve decides to pick up where they left off: telegraphing his movements, he reaches for Bucky’s crotch, thin fingers grasping at his trousers; undoing his button, and then his fly, to slip inside his pants. Unsurprisingly, given that Bucky hasn’t had many sexual experiences – non-traumatic ones, anyway – since seventy years ago, Steve feels that the material of his boxers is already damp. 

Bucky bites back a grunt. Steve’s vision flicks up to his face, and he sees him bite his lips, stark red against his dark stubble; his eyes are clamped shut, and Steve can’t decide if he’s aroused, or in pain. 

“Look at me Bucky,” He whispers. Bucky breathes deeply, for a few moments, before opening his eyes and looking down at Steve’s face. Steve can feel the heat radiating off him as, looking him in the eye, he starts to move his hand.  
“Ah-”

Steve breathes harshly at drawing even one small noise, one tiny shiver, from Bucky: up until now, he’s been trying to keep his sounds in check, clearly. He was desperate downstairs, but he never made a noise, until that one. 

Looking directly into Bucky’s eyes, as he strokes him through his underwear, helping him break his silence. Gradually he strokes a little faster. Bucky purses his lips, but can’t help but start to thrust up towards Steve’s hand – after a few seconds, it’s like he realises what’s going on, and his hips stutter to a stop. He holds himself tightly still, forcing himself not to move, though it’s clearly killing him, because Steve’s hand hasn’t stopped moving. 

But it does, when Steve asks, “Are you okay?”

Bucky nods frantically, huffing harshly. 

“You can move,” Steve says. Bucky bites his lip.  
“Reminds – me of – the other morning – did something – something bad – not in control-” Bucky explains. “Have to – got to keep in control-”

Steve nods in understanding, though he can still see him shaking with the effort of holding himself over Steve while not moving at all. Steve’s spare hand comes up to hold his face, as Steve presses a kiss to his open mouth. 

“Let go – you can let go now – you’re in control. Anything you don’t like, you can say, um . . . You can say red – got it? Green for go, red for – for no,” Steve says, smiling half-heartedly at the rhyme.  
“C-can’t – can’t always speak,” Bucky reminds him.  
“Shit – okay, uh-” Steve says, cursing himself for forgetting something that’s usually so obvious to him. He blames it on the fact his dick is throbbing, right now, like if it doesn’t get touched he’ll die. But Bucky, and his safety and comfort and needs, are about a million times more important than that. 

“-Tap three times. On the bed. With your fist. Like – _one, two, three_ ,” Steve says, using the hand that was on Bucky’s pants to demonstrate. Bucky follows suit, with his metal hand, and Steve nods with encouragement.  
“You’re in control, Buck. Even if your body starts to – to _move_. Even if it starts to enjoy this – you’re in control, and you can always say no. Even if it means I have to stop. You come first, got it?”  
“. . . In control,”  
“Yeah. But it’s okay to let go, if you want to, and let me do this for you,” Steve says. Bucky leans down to kiss him on the mouth, before dragging his lips across his red-flushed skin, kissing where it’s hottest. He feels Steve’s blood thundering through his veins, his small, bleeding heart pumping a mile a minute, as he replaces his hand on Bucky’s crotch – and starts to slip it into Bucky’s underwear. 

Bucky’s hips stutter, slightly, as Steve says:  
“Green or red?” 

Bucky pauses, for a second, before telling him, “Green – gr-green – _please_ -”

Steve finally gets his hand on Bucky’s dick, and it’s like he’s been waiting a lifetime for this – it’s exactly how he felt in the flower shop yesterday, listening to music with Steve, like he’s come from decades ago via a set of circumstances that defy all logic, just to teach Steve how to dance in time to his favourite music. He’s giving himself to Steve, he’s giving his trust to Steve, and it feels – it makes him _feel_ , like he’s alive. 

Steve strokes him, and Bucky’s head hangs between his shoulders, hair hanging down onto the pillow beside Steve’s head, as Steve whispers in his ear,  
“Thought I’d never – never get to do this. Thought about it today. Didn’t know where you were – thought I’d never get to – to show you that I-”  
“Already showed me,” Bucky says, though his words are gravelly and strained. His hips are snapping forward, now, as Steve’s strokes speed up a little. Bucky feels so hot he can barely stand it; he feels it in his chest, his face – his ass, and everywhere Steve is gripping. It’s not his first time but it’s of no consequence to him at all. He wants Steve, whoever he is, and whatever he’s done. 

Steve, who helped him to speak, when he had no voice. Steve, who listened to what he didn’t say, and who helped give him his purpose back. Steve, who helped him find out who he was, taking him in selflessly just because he thought it was the right thing to do.  
“Come on, Buck,” Steve encourages him, breathing almost as hard as Bucky is, in his ear. Bucky presses a sloppy kiss to Steve’s shoulder, to mask the groan he makes, rather unsuccessfully. 

“That’s it – that’s it, come on – doing so well – come on,” Steve is repeating, praising Bucky, coaxing him into a state where he’s not really there, not really in his aching body, but floating somewhere above, where he can only feel Steve’s hand, only hear Steve’s voice. 

“So good for me – that’s it – come on Buck, _please_ -”

The same as last time, Steve begging him, using his name, is enough to make him gasp into Steve’s shoulder, and bite down – not hard, but enough to bruise – and come thrusting into Steve’s hand. He strokes him through it, whispering sweet nothings into his ear, while sweat cools on his back. He starts to twitch and squirm, ass clenching and muscles spasming, so Steve removes his hand, and cleans up. 

Bucky sits up on his elbows, looking down at Steve: his eyes are shining and bright, his lips parted as he huffs out each ragged breath; he looks wrecked, blushing with his arms above his head, and his vest – his thin, white vest is stuck to his chest, so the peaks of his nipples are clearly visible. 

Bucky’s right hand gently touches Steve’s neck, before he strokes it downwards, between his pecs and right to his ribs. His left hand mirrors the grip of his right, and they both travel down his sides, soothing the skin there through the thin, wet fabric of his vest. 

“Did – did well, Buck,” Steve praises, out of breath, though he’s not the one that just had a sexual experience for the first time in seven decades. Bucky nods, his eyes darker now even than before, as his hands reach the sides of Steve’s boxers. His thumbs hook over the waistband, pulling slightly downwards, teasing Steve. 

“. . . Can I?” He asks. Steve swallows, but nods. Steve doesn’t usually have trouble speaking – that’s what Bucky assumes, anyway, until he hears Steve’s hoarse, yes. 

He pulls down Steve’s boxer-briefs, pulling them from his feet, and chucking them to the ground carelessly. He takes a moment to just look down at Steve’s almost naked body, entirely unclothed apart from his vest, with his hands still resting above his head, as if in surrender. He squirms, blushing even harder, under Bucky’ scrutiny. 

Steve is a little different from what he remembers – he knows it’s because of those injections he needs. His dick is a little bigger than usual, but his front still blushes nice and pretty – he remembers many, _many_ different people, and what they looked like without pants on. He can’t connect experiences with faces, and he can’t say the circumstances for any, but this is one that will be burned into his mind forever, he thinks. 

“Stop starin’,” Steve complains, turning his head away – Bucky reaches with his left hand and places it, cool, against Steve’s face, turning it softly to look at him again.  
“Remembered some things. In my dreams. Can I show you?” He asks. Cautiously, Steve nods. “Green?” Bucky follows up.  
“Green,” Steve says with a small smile, liking that Bucky was definitely listening to him before, even when his common sense was all but lost to arousal. He feels completely safe, knowing Buck acknowledges that their colour system goes both ways. 

Bucky kisses Steve on the cheek, before moving down his body, and setting between his legs. Steve’s eyes widen, as Bucky’s hands gently part his soft thighs, and he starts to kiss the insides of them, over stretch marks and soft curls, Steve blushing uncontrollably deeper. 

Steve can’t believe that, of all things Bucky might remember, _this_ was one of the things that his unconscious mind chose to show him in his wet dreams. _He must really like it._

When Bucky gets his mouth on Steve’s dick, Steve feels his toes curl, his head pressing insistently against the pillow beneath him; Bucky doesn’t stop, pushing deeper, using his lips and tongue to repay Steve for his work helping him _let go_ earlier. Steve doesn’t want to be rude, but he’d love to thread his fingers in Bucky’s hair right now – the temptation to push him deeper, beg for _more_ with his hands, would be too hard to resist. He just pulls on his own hair with one hand, head tossing to one side, and slips his other hand under the pillow. It grips and pulls, too, as Steve’s head sharply snaps the other way. 

Steve gasps when he feels Bucky’s cool metal hand on his stomach: Steve lifts his head, still panting, and makes eye contact with him. Bucky presses one last kiss to Steve, before asking,  
“Red?”  
“No! No-” Steve says, shaking his head persistently. Bucky nods and, before Steve can plead with him, starts to suck gently on Steve. Steve’s head dips back down into the pillow again, back arching to try and press himself harder into Bucky’s open, waiting mouth. 

But Bucky has a technique, it’s clear to see: he starts to go harder, teasing Steve without mercy, like he presumably would have with any partner back in the day. He strokes Steve’s stomach, metal hand travelling higher, until it’s on Steve’s right pec. In the meantime, his right hand strokes Steve between his thighs, gathering wetness, before pushing slowly inside him in time with his licks. 

Steve moans, half-sobbing, and clenching minutely around Bucky’s fingers; it’s been so long, since someone has touched him like this, and he’s always been very sensitive. But the noise is nothing, compared to when Bucky’s left hand slowly rolls his nipple, gripping it tightly, and causing him to yelp – his filthy noises build up, until Bucky’s efforts are rewarded with Steve clenching around his fingers, one hand springing free to grasp his hair, as his hips buck up, desperately seeking more friction, more thrusts, _more Bucky._

Bucky keeps going until Steve’s cries die down, and just his desperate breathing remains: he sounds like he might have an asthma attack, so Bucky just rests his head on his stomach, stroking his sensitive sides to calm him down, watching his chest rise and fall with fervour, as if he’s just about survived drowning. 

“J-Jesus, Buck-” He finally pants out. “I – I really-”  
“Okay?” Bucky asks, when he can’t get his words out. Steve looks at him like he’s said something wrong.  
“ _Okay_?” Steve asks, and shakes his head. “I really-”

Bucky waits, this time. 

“I really love you. Oh my God,” Is what Steve finally manages to say, eyes drooping, as his breaths catch up with him.  
“I love you too,” Bucky responds, but he isn’t smiling – it has a note of genuine, serious sincerity that forces Steve to look into his bright, shining eyes, and take it in. “I mean it,”  
“Good,” Steve tells him, licking his lips, and sitting up on his elbows. “Because you’re mine, now. You’re staying. Alright?” He jokes, given what Bucky said earlier.  
“Of course,” Bucky says earnestly, seemingly missing the note of humour.  
“. . . You know that was a joke, right?” Steve asks uncertainly. “I mean – I’d let you go if you wanted to – well, not _let_ you, I don’t own you or something awful like that, I just mean if you wanted to, you could leave, and-”

But Bucky grins, and climbs upwards to kiss Steve; he turns them over, making Steve yelp with surprise, until Steve is lying on his body. He kicks off his trousers, and kisses Steve deeply. 

“I know. Just kidding. But I’m staying. That’s what I want,” 

So Bucky, sleepily stroking Steve’s hair deep into the night, while Steve sleeps softly and soundly on his chest, stays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FURTHER WARNINGS 
> 
> Steve's genitalia is referred to as his 'dick' because this is the term he feels comfortable with. This sexual experience is fully consensual but Bucky has trouble letting go and speaking, so a non-verbal 'safe-word' is established. Steve hasn't had a sexual partner in a long time so it's quite emotional for him, too.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's alive!!
> 
> Yes, I'm back, and I have this chapter for you!! Not your regularly scheduled update, but I hope you can forgive me. It's been a rough couple of weeks, I'm afraid. I won't get into it but I hope this chapter makes up for it. It will be the final chapter, bar an epilogue. Yes, the end is in sight (this ended up being a lot longer than I thought, even with my carefully written out plan, but then again these things always are). 
> 
> Enjoy!! 
> 
> Warnings: post-traumatic stress on Steve, Bucky and Sam's part. Discussions of violence, and of therapy and psychological treatment. Further details regarding these warnings are available at the end of the chapter notes.

Steve is awoken by a knocking downstairs: strangely enough, Bucky is still in bed with him, still with his arms wrapped around Steve. He tenses up at the same time Steve does.  
“Mm-” Steve hums drowsily, and takes a deep breath, sighing tiredly as he sits up. Bucky relinquishes his grip gradually. 

Steve gets out of bed, as Bucky sits up, eyes completely focussed on Steve as he looks out of the bedroom window for any signs of trouble. 

Steve’s eyes widen, and he curses loudly, suddenly jumping for some sweatpants to pull on.  
“What?” Bucky asks urgently, in action mode already.  
“Delivery! Forgot about my delivery today, the truck’s outside – _fuck_ , gotta take the delivery-” He mumbles, and rushes out of the door. 

Understanding his haste, but still wary that there might be trouble, Bucky pulls on some clothes as quickly as possible and runs right after him. He finds Steve unlocking the door, still clearly straight from waking up, and about to make a spectacle of himself in front of his usual delivery man.  
“I’m so sorry – I’ve, uh – the shop’s been closed, and – I’m sorry,” Steve stumbles over his apologies, as he steps outside, helping carrying the plants in. Bucky helps, too, simply nodding to the driver, who nods back. They’ve seen a lot of each other, over the past couple of months, seeing as Bucky does most of the heavy lifting of plants into and around the shop. 

He makes quick work of bringing Steve’s plants inside, Steve all the while muttering about _making them last a little longer, the shop won’t be open today, but at least they’ll smell nice_. He scrambles for the cash desk, keeping the driver waiting for a moment while he grabs a larger-than-usual tip – for making him wait, and answering the door looking like he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards. 

Steve tells Bucky what to do with the plants – which to water, which to take upstairs, which old plants to get rid of so that the new ones can fit in – while he makes a note of the deliveries in his ledger, trying to get back into the swing of business while glancing as often as he dares at Bucky: the way he moves, the colour of his skin; the flecks of blood, still on his face, that he hadn’t noticed in the dark of the night before. Thankfully, hadn’t _tasted_. 

When they’re finally done, Bucky sidles up to the cash desk, and leans his forearms on it, watching Steve’s face fondly while he finishes the last of his notes up. Bucky always works much quicker than Steve does: while Steve has been devoted to the shop for years, work is all Bucky’s known for a long time. So it makes sense, Steve figures. 

Finally, Steve sets his pen down: he looks up, and leans his chin on his fist, supporting his weight with his elbow on the counter. He examines Bucky’s face, taking in the mist of blood; the bruising around his right eye that looks like it’s been there for days and days, though Steve knows it must have been from wherever he went yesterday. 

“So,” Steve says. Bucky yawns; Steve tries not to be distracted by how cute he looks.  
“Yes,” Bucky answers, blinking back at him.  
“I was worried about you, Buck,” Steve says. Bucky just blinks, again; Steve feels frustrated, and so he emphasises. “I mean, _really_ fucking worried. Do you know what I thought?” 

Bucky licks his lips. From his concerned expression, he can guess, clearly. But Steve doesn’t feel like he grasps the magnitude of his anxiety. 

“I thought Natasha came. In the night. I thought she took you away and I’d never see you again – do you get that?” Steve asks, raising his voice a little as he stands up straight. Bucky mirrors his movement. “I phoned – everyone. No one saw you. No one saw her, and – and even the – even the fucking _cat_ was wondering where you were, and I couldn’t tell it you were gone, I thought you were never coming back, and-”

Bucky takes his shoulders in his hands, and Steve stops himself from talking. He bows his head.  
“I just thought that was it. That was it, for me,” 

Bucky brings up his right hand to cup his cheek. He tilts Steve’s head up and it’s obvious, to Steve, from the expression on his face, that he’s deeply upset. Not just over what he’s been through, but because he dragged Steve through it as well.  
“I – I’m s-sorry, Steve,” He says, swallowing involuntarily. “There was n-no time – I wanted to – to tell you, but . . . No time. Not safe. I’m sorry,” 

A tear slips from Steve’s eye, looking at the anguish in Bucky’s expression: it’s clear that it wasn’t his intention, to scare Steve, but Steve still feels afraid, nonetheless. He’s terrified that Bucky was hurt; that something _awful_ happened; that he still might disappear for good. 

“. . . I left you a rose,” He mentions. “Like last time,”  
“Didn’t think you were coming back that time, either. Right after we met. That night . . . I thought you were a dream. A nightmare, even,” Steve admits. He blinks hard. “But there it was. The white rose. That was the only reason I really knew you were real,”  
“But I came back,” Bucky insists. “I’ll always come back,” 

Steve looks up into Bucky’s eyes: they’re wide, and round like saucers, and wet. They’re full of a sincerity that Steve can scarcely bring himself to look upon, but he does it anyway – he won’t flinch, he won’t look away, Bucky needs him. 

“But where did you go? – Last night, I mean?” Steve asks, clarifying as if Bucky won’t know exactly what he means. He doesn’t react, for a moment, just staring at Steve like he’s trying to map every single detail of his face in the sparse light. The blinds are all drawn, and just the light from the tiny spaces between the slats pokes through; from their sides, light trickles like a warm spring onto Steve’s freckled face. 

And he decides that Steve needs to know. 

“. . . I’ll tell you,” Bucky says, and nods once, decisively. Steve’s eyes linger on him a moment more, suddenly wondering if this is the best idea. But then an idea strikes him.  
“Get the blanket from the office. The one on the back of the chair,” Steve says. _The one I wrapped you in when you were cold, and alone, and lost in the world, wordless and hunted in my flower shop that first night. That one._

Bucky looks a little confused, but gets it anyway: when he returns seconds later, Steve takes the blanket, and lays it out on the floor in front of the cash desk. Bucky raises an eyebrow, opening and shutting his mouth, but unable to draw any words from the deep pool of his thoughts. It’s just nice to feel that he has any thoughts at all. 

Steve sits down on the blanket, and lies back, his hands folding with their fingers laced together on his dipping stomach. The blanket is huge, and he doesn’t touch either end, not even with the tips of his toes; not even with the wildest tufts of his messy blond hair. Finally, he pats the floor next to him: Bucky interprets his meaning and, careful not to crumple the blanket in case it upsets Steve somehow, lays down beside him. 

They both stare up at the ceiling: the usual array of scuff marks, made years and years ago by unimaginable accidents and repairs, adorn the tiles. They’re off-white and cheap, but Steve wouldn’t have them any other way.  
“Been the same since we were kids. Look at the black speckles – me and Sam, we – we’d come down here, after dark, lay out on this blanket his Ma gave to us, with a flashlight, and we’d just lie here talking. If I squinted hard enough in the dark, I could see the stars. Could never see them outside – just, if you squeeze your eyes shut just right, and imagine really hard-” Bucky smiles softly at Steve’s face, as he screws it up, and lifts his hands above his body to make a square shape with his fingers through which to look, and focus. 

His hands drop back to his chest, resting one on top of the other over his sternum. Bucky can see the way it arches, and dips; through Steve’s thin tank top, he can see his ribs and, if he concentrated hard enough, he could probably make out his freckles. Bucky wonders how old the shirt is. He wonders why Steve took him in, if he barely has the money to replace basic clothes. 

It’s not because he’s a Christian – well, maybe _partly_ , but that doesn’t mean he’s obligated to take in a guy like Bucky. But . . . Steve saw something in him. Something good and pure, that Bucky’s never seen or even realised was there – but that he’s willing to show to Steve as much as he needs, and wants. To Steve, he’d give it all. 

“Hydra,” Bucky says, Steve turns his head towards Bucky, who mirrors his position. His hands crumple his shirt a little more, though – his fingers a little tenser, bunching the material. “It was them. New intel. I went to stop them. I . . .” He bites his lip. “I’m not supposed to say who with. But it was SHIELD. I went with SHIELD to stop them,”  
“They believed you?” Steve asks, surprised – not because he thought Bucky was lying for a second, but because Natasha seemed so adamant that Bucky couldn’t _possibly_ be the same Captain America everyone knew from the war. He assumed she might pass these doubts on to her colleagues.  
“They had no one else to turn to. Hydra had infiltrated. Natasha, she – had to call in some outside agents. Build up the assault against them,”  
“Outside agents,” Steve echoes thoughtfully. “But you’re not allowed to tell me who. Why? It’s not like I’m gonna tell anyone. It’s not like I even know any damn secret agents . . . Uh, except you, and Natasha. And she must have been involved if you were,” 

Bucky nods. He licks his lips, shifting his head back to look at the ceiling with a troubled look. 

“I . . . Still have trouble contravening orders from authority figures,” Bucky adds shyly.  
“Who else have you had this problem with? – I mean, you’re not seriously implying that I’m an authority figure,” Steve says doubtfully, sitting up on one elbow to look at Bucky with a raised eyebrow.  
“It’s your shop,” Bucky points out quietly. Steve scoffs.  
“It’s your house!” 

Bucky blink, his eyebrows raising, as he looks to Steve: but he’s not joking. _It’s your house_. 

“. . . Is it?” Bucky asks, genuinely unsure.  
“This is where you live. Where you come back to. It’s your house,” Steve tells him. Bucky shakes his head, with a frown.  
“Where I come back to. Where I feel safe. Where you are. That’s – not my house. That’s my home. That’s what home is, isn’t it? . . . I forget, sometimes I forget English, I-”

Steve leans down to kiss Bucky’s uncertainty from his lips. Bucky kisses back softly. 

“That’s a very sweet thing to say,” Steve murmurs, and plants a peck to the corner of Bucky’s mouth. “. . . Go on,” He encourages him, after a few more moments. 

“Not allowed to say who they are. I won’t . . . Deny anything. I can tell you some things, maybe,” Bucky says, as if he’s working through a difficult math problem. Well – maybe not for him. Math seems to be one of his many fortes. But unfortunately for Steve, speaking isn’t. Thankfully, Steve is more than patient.  
“. . . Favourite flower. Red rose – simple, but it always – gets the ladies, gets them going,” Bucky says, and Steve feels like the words aren’t even his own; someone put them there. “Can kick a ball a hundred yards – big, hitter – good at sports, was always good at sports-”

Steve frowns: he goes to open his mouth, but Bucky continues –  
“Bravest soldier – more skilled, but – bravest, more than worthy of the title . . . Likes blue snowcones, and peanut butter jelly sandwiches with the crusts off, then he’ll – he’ll eat them separately after – likes the peppermint tea, the one you have at the back of the cupboard over the – the small, the oven thing-” Bucky gestures a square shape.  
“The microwave?” 

Bucky nods. Steve’s frown deepens. This is a lot of information – seemingly unrelated, seemingly out of nowhere-  
“- loves you very, very much,” Bucky says quietly, and looks up to make eye contact with him. 

Steve’s blood drains from his face. He suddenly realises what Bucky’s getting at – all the information he’s been keeping, storing away for _months_ , snapping it up wherever he can get it, and filing it away in case he needed it – and because he _wanted_ to. Bucky’s just telling Steve what Steve’s told him, in the past; a selection of facts he’s shared. 

Facts about Sam. 

“. . . Sam was here?” Steve asks hoarsely, mouth hanging open. Bucky nods.  
“He – wanted to say something, but – knew you’d be too stubborn to stay – no time – he came to check you were okay, getting me was – was the number two priority, I think,”  
“He came to get you,” Steve says, still very pale; he slumps back, his arms draping over his chest, as he stares up at the ceiling. “. . . I haven’t – haven’t seen him in so long, haven’t even heard from him, and . . .”  
“He fought well,” Bucky says, turning over so he’s on his side, facing Steve. Steve’s gaze grows even more concerned, as he interprets Bucky’s words.  
“Fought?” He asks, fear in his eyes.  
“Really well. He’ll make a good Captain America,” 

Steve’s face contorts in confusion: “A _what_?” 

Bucky gulps; he reaches out to stroke down Steve’s wild hair, smiling fondly just a little when it pings right back into its previous anarchic shape.  
“He’s Cap, now. They didn’t want to tell anyone. No one could know. But after this . . . Everyone will know. He saved us,” Bucky says, voice trailing off; gaze growing distant. “He saved me,” 

Though he’s barely keeping up with all of the information Bucky’s giving him, Steve still realises that Bucky’s not doing so great: he needs to open up now, or it could be days – or weeks, or months, or _never_. 

“How?” Steve asks gently. “What happened?”  
“Was-” Bucky gulps back the first of his stutters, but tries to press on anyway. “Fighting. Stronghold. Base in New Jersey. And – a man, who used to – he used to-”

Bucky withdraws his right hand, bringing it to clasp onto his left hand, which whirrs and whines against the intense grip. His own strength stops it breaking free, though his right arm shakes with the force of effort. Steve’s never seen someone’s inner conflict personified physically, before. It’s not pretty to watch. 

“H-hurt me. Said – awful things – tried to hurt me, but I hit back,”  
“Bucky,” Steve says gently, a heartfelt word in sympathy.  
“I kept – k-kept hitting, almost – God, Stevie – blood everywhere, and – and I couldn’t think – r-remember when I couldn’t think?” He asks, and Steve nods with a pained expression on his face. “I was him again. That again. I was that again – but-”

He screws his eyes shut, and Steve’s gaze travels down to his knuckles, which are still bruised now: he must have hit very hard.  
“Just when I was – was gonna lose me, was gonna – when I was so close to, to-” _To killing him, to beating him til there was nothing left, to thinking that would stop the memories and the awful things coming to strangle him in the night_ – “. . . Sam was there. He said no. He said no, Steve. Said no,” 

Steve glances up at Bucky’s face, partially covered by his long, messy hair, and watches as tears squeeze out of his eyes and drip down onto the blanket. Steve knows it’s caught more tears than he can count, between Bucky, Sam and himself, over the years. 

“No?” Steve presses carefully. Bucky nods.  
“No. He said – he said everyone had to know w-what he’d done . . . Didn’t have to know about me, I didn’t have to show up, but he had to be punished – too easy, to just die,” Bucky tells him. “Said Captain America doesn’t do that. And I believed him,” Bucky explains shakily.  
“It’s true,” Steve tells him, tucking his stray hair behind his ear. Bucky opens his eyes, and looks up at Steve, who rolls over onto his side to face Bucky. From this angle, the light catches half of Steve’s face, plunging half into darkness; the outlines of his cheekbones, his ribs, his sternum – all visible, all jutting out, but to Bucky he’s the picture of steadfast, unending strength and support. 

He’s Steve. And Steve tells him,  
“You never killed anyone. Not because you wanted to. Right? – They made you do things. They put thoughts in your head and people got hurt. You got hurt. I know. I’ve been there – but sometimes . . .” He sighs, and bites his lip, “. . . Sometimes you need someone to tell you you’re okay. It’s okay. You can stop, now. You’re a hero. Don’t let them take that from you ever again,” 

Bucky’s eyes well up, but he gives Steve a watery smile, and leans forward to kiss him: Steve responds in kind, wrapping his arms around Bucky and pulling him closer. He tucks Bucky’s head under his chin, and lies there with his head buried in Bucky’s hair, while he sobs for a while into Steve’s bony chest. Even in the semi-darkness, Bucky thinks he can see the stars on Steve’s skin. He thinks he can see the universe and he thinks it might leave him alone, now. 

“They’re gone,” Bucky gasps out. “They’re gone. But they’ll pay,”  
“Thanks to you,” Steve tells him. “If you hadn’t escaped, this wouldn’t have happened,”  
“If you hadn’t taken me in I’d be dead,” Bucky points out, tilting his head up for a moment to make eye contact with Steve: sincere, earnest thanks in his eyes. 

“I just do what I can. What you deserved. What you’ll always deserve,” Steve says, shirking his praise. “I love you,”  
“I love you too,” Bucky says, tucking his head back in under Steve’s chin. “Every bit,” 

Steve laughs softly. There’s a long pause, in which he listens to Bucky’s hitching breaths even out slightly. Finally, he tentatively asks, “You liked last night, then?” 

He feels Bucky snort lightly against his chest, and nod.  
“N-nice . . . Wrong word,” He says. Steve smiles, and closes his eyes, just enjoying the warmth of the moment: the feel of the hard floor blocked by the soft blanket; wrapping his arms around 200 pounds of super soldier, and barely being able to reach; the beautiful smell of the flowers, and the spectrum they create around them like a halo in the mid-morning light. 

“. . . I like Sam,” Bucky murmurs sleepily. 

Steve adjusts them, rolling over a little so he’s lying completely on top of Bucky; Bucky slides his arms around Steve, as he lays his head on his chest, listening to his slow, steady heartbeat – much slower than anyone’s he’s ever heard, or imagined. There’s so much about Bucky – physically, mentally, emotionally – that he’ll never know, or be able to explain. But that doesn’t matter because he’s sure he still knows _Bucky_. He really, truly does. 

“I knew you would,” Steve whispers. 

They stay like that for a long while. 

-

Steve makes stew that night. After a whole day just talking – Bucky gradually letting out details about what happened last night, and Steve choking back anger, and tears, and gasps – they’ve finally managed to relax into something like comfort, for the two of them. They took a shower together, after hours laying on that blanket together – Bucky blushed when Steve told him that not even all the flowers in the world could mask the smell of Bucky twelve hours after what they did last night. 

Bucky sits on the couch, ostensibly watching the TV: some kids movie about two dogs and a cat that can’t find their family. Bucky finds the idea of talking pets a little over the top, but it’s funny in places. They’re trying to get home. That’s fair enough. 

“I’m making it just like my Ma used to. Did you know I’m Irish?” Steve asks, from the kitchen: Bucky raises his head from where it’s leaning on his hand, on the arm of the couch. He smiles slightly.  
“No,” He replies softly.  
“Well I am. Ancestors came over here to escape the potato famine, actually. When a hundred other ships sank on their way here – we managed to survive, our little community, apparently. I probably don’t speak as much Irish as my Ma would have liked, though,” Steve tells Bucky, easily falling into talking at Bucky, entertaining him, when he clearly doesn’t have the inclination to talk at that moment.  
“What about you? – I mean, you know how to speak Russian, and French, and German – those are the ones you’ve told me about, anyways,” He adds. “Got any Irish knocking about up there?” 

Bucky’s forehead scrunches, and he looks down at his hands, trying to work out what that would even sound like: it’s not a common one, for him, at least. Mainland Europe was more where he was deployed, that he can remember. 

He shakes his head. “Sorry,” He apologises, looking sheepish.  
“Don’t apologise! It’s not your job to know that kinda thing. What about-” Steve pauses, for a second, turning away from the oven, where he’s checking the stew, for just a second – “What about Yiddish?” 

Bucky’s skin crawls, for just a second: he looks back up a Steve, rigid with something like fear. He swallows, his eyes wide and shining, as they make contact with Steve’s. He shakes his head adamantly. 

“Alright! Alright,” Steve says, shutting the oven and making his way over to Bucky. “Just wondering. It’s fine. You know it’s fine. Right?” 

Bucky pauses, but nods. He still has to remind himself that _yes, it is okay_. 

“. . . Right,” Bucky breathes, as Steve sits down on the arm of the couch, leaning along the back behind Bucky, and starting to card his hands gently through his hair as they watch. He feels Bucky relax, melting back into the soft fabric under his touch. He even sees his eyes slip shut a little – he feels the urge to sing one of the Irish lullabies his Ma passed down to him to Bucky, right then and there, but worries that he might not want to sleep. His eyes keep opening, keep focussing on the film, and then on Steve’s face as he watches. Inadvertently, they take turns to look at one another, as if to reassure themselves. 

When they make eye contact, looking at the same time, Steve blushes.  
“Sorry. Just. Still not sure you’re still here,”  
“Your hands are on me,” Bucky observes.  
“. . . I – I know that,” Steve says, blushing harder. “Thanks for the update, genius,”  
“Then don’t worry,” Bucky says, looking back to the TV as if it’s as simple as that. But even he knows it isn’t. Otherwise he wouldn’t be checking that Steve, above and behind him, is still there; still healthy, and safe, and out of harm’s way. He eyes the window across the room, and consciously stops himself from checking for snipers for the fourteenth time since he started counting. 

_They’re gone. They’re gone, aren’t they?_

He gets his answer soon enough. 

When the movie has finished, and Steve has finally slumped on the sofa next to Bucky, using his clean shirt to dry his nose and tears, Steve changes channels. Immediately, some kind of brash news graphic splashes the screen in red, making Bucky start. Steve quickly grips his thigh with one calming hand. 

Bucky sits back, slightly, not even having registered before how he’d gone to jump out of his seat at the first sign of danger, left arm flung across Steve.  
“Did I hurt you?” He asks. 

Steve just stares at the screen. His mouth gapes slightly, but he shakes his head in response all the same. He’s clearly preoccupied. Bucky checks the screen. 

He sees Sam: he’s sitting alongside Nick Fury, and Natasha Romanoff, at some sort of conference. The light suggests that the footage was filmed this morning – as well as the fact Sam is still in his Captain America uniform, Natasha is still clad in her black suit, and they’re both sporting scuff marks and small grazes all over. 

_Of course_ , Steve thinks. _All this time. All those questions about Sam Natasha was asking. It was a reference. She was screening him, the whole time, to be Cap._

Sam is talking. 

“Thanks to a . . . Well-placed piece of intel, we were able to ascertain that Secretary Pierce did not have homeland security in his best interests. My colleague was able to find evidence of wrongdoing, and links with the terrorist group Hydra. Terrible . . . Abuses, of human rights – torture, detainment, as well as terrorism stretching back over eighty years. The things we unearthed at their previously covert base in New Jersey were . . . They were-”

Sam’s head dips. Steve leans forward, still gaping, heart tearing apart as he watches Sam try to sum up all the wretched things he saw last night, at that base – with Bucky and Natasha by his side – and fail miserably, his face dark, and his demeanour haunted, unable to put it into words. 

“Thanks to Captain Wilson, we’ve managed to cut this operation off at the root. We’re currently processing agents of Hydra, and they will receive harsh punishment for the things they did. Without the Captain’s help, we wouldn’t have known any of this. The decision has been made that he will take up the position of Captain America permanently, in honour of the lost previous Captain, who was willing to give his all to stop Hydra,” Fury explains stoically. Everyone keeps Bucky's involvement, and continued existence in his current state, a secret.  
“Yes,” Sam says, and glances up at the camera. “God bless Captain Barnes. God bless America,” 

Steve glances at Bucky: his eyes are wide, like they’re being held open by phantom fingers; his metal fingers creak and whine with the tightness with which he grips the fabric of the couch between them; his flesh fingers, too, are claws digging into the arm of the couch. He’s entirely rigid, and there are tears in his eyes – the kind Steve used to see when he’d watch his grandfather watch military parades and memorials. The kind of tears that were never spoken about, or acknowledged. The kind that drowned him, and thousands like him, eventually. 

_No. Not this time. Not Bucky._

“Buck,” Steve says, turning the volume on the TV down to zero. “Hey – it’s okay,” 

Steve gets down on the floor in front of him: he kneels up, though his knees scream, and he imagines he looks like the most flimsy defence Bucky could ever dream of having against the force of Hydra, and the forces within him that seek to tear him asunder. 

He glances down from his thousand-yard stare, and into Steve’s eyes. 

“It’s over. See?”  
“It’s-” Bucky swallows, and squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head. He feels the blood on his hands, and draws them into his lap; sees the puddle grow, get all over Steve’s couch, Steve’s floor, Steve’s clothes, Steve’s face, leak right out of his eyes-

Then nothing. Silence. Breathing. Calm. _It’s not real. Refocus. Think nothing. Be calm. And try again._

“I don’t think it’ll ever be over,” He confesses. He feels a sob bubble out of his mouth, and hates it.  
“Let it come – come on, Bucky – let it out,” Steve says, and gets back up onto the couch, hugging Bucky into him, tucking his chin over Bucky’s head again, until they topple down and along the couch in a big pile. Bucky’s hitching breaths echo through his chest cavity like they’re his own. But he needs this. 

He needs this time to grieve his old life, even if he fucking hated it. He needs a moment to find something to believe in, now – a moment to believe that he’s going to be okay, and that no one is coming back for him, now. There’s no one left. No one but Sam, and Natasha, and _Steve_. 

No one who wants to hurt him. They’re all going to disappear and the change is too hard to bear. 

“You can do this,” Steve says. “Change is so, so hard. But you can do it. I did it, and you’re – well, you’re-” He smiles a little, pressing a kiss into Bucky’s dark, freshly-washed hair. “You’re Bucky Barnes. Captain America. The strongest person I can think of. Nothing breaks you. But you can change,” 

There’s a long period of silence, then: Bucky can hear himself snivelling, and though he hates the sound of it, the pathetic feel of it, he drowns it out because Steve told him to and so it’s okay. He’s no burden – not right now. He’s just . . . Adjusting. 

And, he realises, this might be the final time he has to. He’s found his home. This is where he gets to live. Things only change if he wants them to, from now on. 

He’s found his place to be. He’s found who he can be, now. And it’s nothing – nothing, whatsoever – to do with the men he beat nearly to death last night, for stealing his power from him a long, long time to go. 

“. . . Betcha you’re stronger,” Bucky mumbles against Steve’s chest, and can’t help but smile when he hears the vibrations of Steve’s laughter through his chest wall. 

“Bullshit, Bucky,” Steve murmurs, but continues to stroke his hair. 

They lie like that for a few moments more, until there’s a sharp noise – the ringing of an alarm, sending Bucky sitting up at the speed of light. Steve grabs his arm, and launches himself off the couch, saying, “The stew-!”

Bucky breathes easier, as Steve opens the oven, pokes around in the pot, and nods with satisfaction.  
“Would you get the cutlery out? – we’ve been slacking on the job,” Steve observed. “Can’t be laying around all day when there’s a table to lay, now can we?” He says, winking at Bucky over his shoulder, before donning his oven gloves and ever-so-carefully pulling the hot pot out of the oven. 

“Room for one more?” 

It happens so fast: the hairs on the back of Bucky’s neck raise, and he watches as if in slow motion as Steve’s eyes go wide, and his hands slacken their grip. But he recognises that voice – and knows that, right now, the stew going all over the floor is much more of a threat than its owner. That stew is burning hot and, if the smell is anything to go by, delicious. It can’t burn Steve and it can’t go to waste. 

In the blink of an eye, Bucky thrusts out his left hand, placing it under the pot, catching it one-handed so that it doesn’t tumble to the floor. Steve yelps in surprise at the sudden movement but when he realises what’s happening, a second later, he falls silent – as does the rest of the room. 

“. . . I guess you bring your skills into the kitchen then, huh,” Sam says, folding his arms, and leaning on the doorframe with a smirk. Bucky looks around at him, and smiles sheepishly back. 

Steve just looks between them, taken aback and speechless.  
“What? Can’t believe how good-lookin’ I am even after all this time?” Sam teases, directing the jibe fully at Steve, whose eyebrows quirk upwards in surprise and happiness; relief, Bucky would call the expression. He rushes over to Sam in a few small steps, and practically leaps onto him, wrapping his thin arms around Sam’s huge shoulders and hugging him tight. He practically wraps his legs around him, too. 

“Good to see you too, kiddo,” Sam chuckles. Steve slaps him on the back hard: “Ow-!”  
“That’s for not telling me what the fuck was going on last night!” Steve says, pulling back slightly and standing on his tiptoes. “And for taking Bucky along – and for, for being _Captain America_ and not even telling me!”  
“I was worried you’d nerd out, Steve!” Sam reasons, a wicked glint in his eye as he looks to where Bucky is setting the pot down on a heatproof mat in the middle of the specially-cleared table. When Steve’s not looking, he sets a third place. 

“Remember how you used to be about the guy? I counted how many posters you had when you used to live just you and your Mom. Forty-eight. Plus the home-made costume, and the sketches, you really had it bad for him, didn’t-”

Steve slaps him on the shoulder, and Sam hits him back with very little force.  
“Shut up,” Steve hisses.  
“Nah. It’s my job, to embarrass you in front of your, uh . . .” Sam’s gaze flicks over to Bucky, again, and he wonders what exactly they have going on here.  
“Guest?” Steve finishes, though he’s not sure that’s what Sam was getting at.  
“Hero,”  
“Partner,” 

Sam and Bucky speak at the same time: Bucky’s mouth shuts with an audible click, and both Steve and Sam watch him go bright red.  
“Uh . . . Yeah. Partner. Why not. It’s not like this situation can get any weirder, huh,” Sam says, not unkindly. 

“There is room,” Bucky says quietly. Sam smiles; Steve looks down to the table, set for three, and it makes him feel oddly . . . _Right_. Complete. He remembers when Sam, his Mom and him all used to sit around the table, eating whatever his Mom or Sam had made that evening, and talk about their days; about work, about books, about the news, about funny clients – anything, really. Even when Steve’s Mom was ill, Steve would make the effort to sit her with them, if she wanted it. She didn’t say much, but she smiled, and she ate, and she was _there_. And that was enough. 

After that, Steve and Sam would eat together and, while it was fun, it wasn’t the same. But now . . . Well, now, they’re back up to the three of them, at least for now. 

“. . . Especially for someone who saved me. Thank you, Captain Wilson,” Bucky says, nodding his head. It’s an oddly formal expression of his thanks but, as Steve looks between Bucky and Sam, he can see that it’s something that needed to pass between them. A gratitude that’s shared between two soldiers, as Sam says,  
“You’re welcome. Same goes for you, you know – you saved me too. Owe you my life,” 

Bucky shakes his head. 

“We’re . . . Good,” 

Sam smiles, and Bucky smiles, though he ducks his head, blushing again. The words must have felt wrong to say; either that, or he just has trouble looking at Sam straight-on. Not because he hates him, or is afraid of him, though – _nothing like that_.

“Can we eat? Sit down soldiers. That’s an order,” Steve jokes.  
“Yes, sir,” Sam says, squeezing Steve’s thin shoulders, before rounding the table to sit at the seat that has been empty – aside from Natasha’s brief moment in the apartment – since Sam left, for his last tour. Bucky follows suit, sitting in his usual seat; Steve sits too, and takes up a spoon before pausing. 

The three of them, together . . . Steve’s not felt this comfortable, or this loved, in a very, very long time. And it only took two Captain Americas to help him out. 

“So,” Steve says, taking Sam’s bowl and serving him a helping of stew. “Just how the hell did they let guys like you become Captain America? Did they not run a background check?” He asks the table jokingly.  
“Simple. They just didn’t ask you about that time we let off fireworks on the roof. Remember? My Mom was so mad. Thought the world was ending,”  
“It almost did,” Steve reminds him, thinking of Sam’s Mom’s wrath, and wincing. She was a lovely lady, but the pair of them were shits, as kids. 

Bucky looks between them, and smiles. _Best friends since childhood_. He feels honoured to be sat here, at the table, with the two of them. 

“What about you, Barnes?” Sam asks. “How’d they end up picking you?”  
“They didn’t know I slept around with anyone I took a liking to,” Bucky says, eyeing Steve to one side, as he raises one eyebrow. He continues: “. . . I picked me. For the experiments. Being Cap followed after the jailbreak,” Bucky tells him, and bites his lip, looking own at the table as he remembers it – Steve passes him a bowl of stew, before taking his hand, across the table, from where he sits between him and Sam.

“There was . . . A guy. At the factory. At the camp. Injured. The guards were . . . Slave-drivers,” He says, though he shivers. Steve’s grip tightens, and squeezes back. Sam watches but doesn’t react, just listens. Steve notes that this is probably the most that Bucky has said in front of someone who’s not him, in his living memory. 

Other than whatever he said last night. But it doesn’t sound too much like there was a lot of talking. Just Bucky working with Sam, and Nat, to tear up everything that bound him to those horrible people. 

“They were gonna take him. But I took a . . . Likin’, to him . . . I stepped in. They took me instead. Did – _this_ to me, not the arm, that came later, but the rest – it took – took months,” He stammers. Steve’s hand slips out from underneath his, and strokes the back of his hand instead, bony fingers splaying between his beaten knuckles. 

“You know, we, uh . . . At SHIELD. We have people. Nat could hook you up with someone to talk to, about . . . Everything,” Sam mentions quietly, suddenly serious. “No questions asked. But super-soldier or not, no one can do it alone – no offence, Steve,”  
“No. You’re right. We’ve been getting by, but – I don’t know, Buck. What do you say?” Steve asks softly, cautiously. 

Bucky feels like he’s about to break out in a nervous sweat, truth be told – even talking about one incidence of torture from the war was enough to do that to him, and the suggestion of talking to someone completely new, learning to trust them, to know they won’t attack him – hurt him – hell, there would be no guarantees at all. 

But then he looks up from his hand to Sam, and to Steve. 

If Sam trusts them, then they must be good. Sam wouldn’t do badly by him. Steve trusts him, and he trusts Steve, and Sam saved his life, and he is someone Bucky could learn to trust too. 

When he sees Steve, he sees someone stronger than he can imagine – but someone who he knows doesn’t deserve to have to go through this all alone. He can’t take advantage of him like that; can’t expect things to be perfect, always. It’s not right now, maybe it never will be, but – Steve has a life, too. 

And Bucky wants it to be better. For both of them. 

“Yes,” He answers finally, with one sure nod. Steve smiles at him and, glancing at Sam just for a second in case he’s uncomfortable, lifts Bucky’s hand to his lips to press a soft, gentle kiss against it, feather-light but a show of courage and trust like Bucky’s never seen. Pride, too. 

The three of them continue to eat, and to talk, way into the night. And they all know that this is something good – something that will stick around, no matter how much Sam comes and goes, no matter how well the business does, no matter how Bucky’s treatment goes. 

Sooner or later, this is going to be their family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Further warnings: 
> 
> Steve's post-traumatic stress is to do with the abuse he's suffered from his peers; Sam's post-traumatic stress leads him to have difficulty speaking about his experiences taking down a Hydra base. Bucky's post-traumatic stress stems from both his previous experiences (at the POW camp, with Hydra, and taking down a base). In part, this manifests as a hallucination of blood before he manages to ground himself. 
> 
> After sharing details of his time in the POW camp, therapy is suggested to Bucky, and he's conflicted about sharing with a therapist.


	12. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end!! 
> 
> Thanks so much for your support. For real, if it hadn't been for you guys supporting you, I wouldn't have felt anywhere near as capable of writing this as I did. Having you guys listen to me, and read, and comment - especially the livecommenting, mentioning no names, but ilu - was simply wonderful. 
> 
> You might've noticed that this fic borrows some references from music - _but which music?_ , you probably don't ask. Well, if you want to listen to the playlist I published to accompany this fic, it can be found here: http://8tracks.com/greatatboats/by-foreign-hands-or-by-familiar
> 
> All that remains to be said is thanks for sticking it out with me, through thick and thin. This fic was only supposed to be about 10-12k - it ended up being 12 chapters. Whoops. Hope it's the ending you were hoping for, anyways. Thanks!! 
> 
> WARNINGS: discussion of therapy and Bucky's treatment. Bucky harbours some old attitudes towards the lgbt+ community and his own orientation and gender, with him thinking of himself as 'a queer' at one point.

THREE MONTHS LATER 

-

Scents always hit Bucky like a gentle, warm wave, no matter what the weather, when he walks into the shop. The freshness of the bouquets Steve arranged on the day permeates everything in there, and makes him feel like he’s safe; lets him know that he’s home. 

“Okay, okay-” He murmurs to the cat squeaking at his feet, trying his best not to trip over it as it weaves in and out between his legs, urgent to get inside and out of the cold. The air is sharp and cool, and leaves are piled up everywhere; it can’t be easy for a mainly outdoors cat to stay warm in this unseasonably cool climate. 

Bucky hangs up his coat on the stand by the door – with more than one person’s coat needing somewhere to be stored, they had to buy that, a few months back – and tugs off one of his gloves. He brings his gloved left hand, and his warm right hand, up to his face: he can almost feel the redness, given that it’s been buffeted by the wind all the way back from therapy. He doesn’t like to take the subway, or a cab. He still can’t bring himself to do either without company. 

There’s no one around: not uncommon, since Steve has security cameras for the store with a little help from Sam’s sizeable pay rise – he can take a second upstairs, or outside, without fear now. 

The cat leaps up onto the cash desk, and Bucky approaches it, letting it butt its head against his right hand playfully. He’s sure to only let it do that to his right hand – he’d hate to have to try and find its owner, and explain why its skull is damaged after butting too hard against his left hand. He would never, _ever_ hurt it. Not ever. 

“Yeah, you’re adorable,” He tells it sincerely, and takes a look down at the ledger – Steve’s had some new deliveries. He casts his gaze around, but sees nothing in need of moving. Just a few flowers that need trimming. 

He takes stock: blue ones, white ones, yellow ones, purple ones, pink ones, green leafy plants . . . Yes, he has what he needs. He’s going to make some more pride posies. 

Leaving the cat to settle down and shed black hair all over Steve’s ledger, he takes up his apron from behind the cash desk, and fastens it quickly; dons the thicker gloves, and takes up the secateurs. 

It’s quiet: it's after the morning rush, but Steve told him not to be guilty about not being here for it, because he's managed before, and he'll manage again. It’s never usually this quiet for long – he doesn’t like to be alone, usually, but in the shop he knows that he’s safe. Whatever happens in here, whoever walks through that door, he’s got people that care what happens. He’s justified in his actions, and he knows what to do. Whatever happens, he can deal with it. 

As he snips carefully, gathering small flower heads, he begins to hum: the humming turns into whispered lyrics, barely tuneful, and grows a little louder to a murmur. The words linger beneath his breath, and he has to pause between lines to remember the next one, but he manages it. 

_He’s so full of love he can barely eat. There’s nothing sweeter than his baby._

He would hum, and whistle, _before_. He would even sing, and take hands, and spin: he’d do it in dance halls, and in smoky clubs, and in between waxing gentlemen’s cars downtown for a few cents an hour. He had to help out any way he could, but he chose to do it with a smile and a song. He wishes he could remember any of them. 

He clearly never lost his good work ethic: that explains why he feels strange, when he’s idle, still. It also explains why he’s finished cutting what he needs from the plants already. Now for the tricky part. 

He gathers his spoils, and takes them over to the cash desk, where he knows the brown string is waiting in a draw for him. The cat noses curiously at the offcuts, and he gently moves it to one side, as he gathers up the colours he needs – _blue, purple, pink – white, green, purple – yellow, pink, blue_ – no black or grey. He’ll have to talk to Steve about how they can do that. _Ribbons, maybe?_

_I didn’t care much how long I lived. But I swear I thought I dreamed him. He never asked me once about the wrong I did._

He ties the string up in a bow on a few separate posies, and sets them out in a line, continuing to sing quietly to himself as he works. The cat purrs, folding its paws over one another, resting his head on them, and sleeping. He wants to touch it but it has to sleep. His singing fades out, and he can consciously feel his heart rate drop, as he watches it sleep in satisfaction. 

“Don’t stop,” 

Bucky doesn’t startle: he simply turns his head, and smiles at Steve, who’s standing in the doorway that leads to the stairs. He’s wearing an expression of pride, and utter adoration. Bucky doesn’t say anything: just looks upon Steve’s thin figure; the way his shirt, adorned with the new shop name, hangs from his slender frame. He knows Steve is healthy, so he can admire every bone, every curve, every freckle he can see. 

“Glad to see you’re in a good mood,” Steve comments, striding up to the front of the desk, and leaning on it until he’s basically nose-to-nose with Bucky. Just when Bucky leans in to kiss him, he turns his head, stroking the cat with a fond expression.  
“Simon – who’s a good boy,” He coos, and the cat chirrups sleepily. Steve smiles wider. 

Bucky feels a strange warmth in his chest that, over the past few months, he’s begun to recognise and accept as ordinary, yet perfectly incredible, love. 

“How was therapy?” Steve asks, looking up from the cat, but continuing to pet it for comfort. “How you feeling?”  
“Like I was hit by a truck,” Bucky answers honestly. “But in a good way,” He adds, nodding, feeling like he’s summed it up well enough. 

Steve smiles sadly. He understands that unburdening yourself through sharing your problems, no matter how helpful and healthy it is, can really take it out of you. But Bucky came back in, and started working again, immediately. He throws himself into something creative, and useful, and he’s _happy_. He tells Steve as often as he likes. It doesn't feel weird to say it anymore. 

Bucky’s already used to doing what’s right, rather than what’s easy. Steve couldn’t be more proud of him. 

Outside, it begins to rain: the soft pitter-patter of raindrops against the windows punctuates the silence between them. 

“That good, huh,” Steve says softly. Bucky nods; raises a hand to Steve, who nods slightly, allowing Bucky to stroke his hand through Steve's hair, like he might’ve the cat's fur, before it went to sleep.  
“Let him sleep. Probably worked out it was going to rain. Wanted to get where it was warm and dry,” Bucky tells Steve, nodding towards Simon.  
“Guess I’ll just have to stroke you instead,” Steve says, taking Bucky’s hand from his hair with both of his hands, and cradling it. He plants soft kisses on Bucky’s knuckles. 

He pauses. “That . . . Didn’t come out right,” 

Bucky snorts, his head ducking down, as he chuckles.  
“Smooth,” He says, and Steve beams, squeezing Bucky’s hand. He's just happy to see Bucky smile so much – but always sincerely. When he’s sad, he’s sad – he doesn’t pretend for anyone, because Steve told him not to. He still gets sad, and angry, and frustrated with himself; still wakes up sick, and scared; still gets hot under the collar, with dark eyes, in a cold sweat. But most of the time, he has this contented expression on his face that Steve knows means he’s trying his best to be at peace; means, truly, that he's _happy_.

That, or he’s outright smiling. Steve loves to see it. It’s prettier than all the flowers in this store, and it’s harder won than them, too – it took more to coax the growth of that smile, and of that long-frozen _personality_ , than any flower could ever need. This one has taken over seven decades to come into bloom. It just needed a little love, and care. 

It just needed Steve. Bucky thinks as much, as Steve leans in to kiss him finally: he hears Steve inhale, as he parts his lips; he’s pliant and softer than he’s ever felt, in Steve’s arms, as they rise to encircle his shoulders, before crossing behind his neck. He feels Steve’s tongue dart out, wetting a little of the stubble beneath his bottom lip, before making its way into his mouth. Steve tastes like breakfast tea, and orange juice. He probably tastes like the ginger tea he made before therapy, as usual – he always feels a little nauseous beforehand. Sometimes it feels like he’s walking into a procedure room. Even now, he has to take Steve with him to the SHIELD doctor. But he’s not allowed in therapy with him, unless the therapist requests it. 

And Bucky’s glad of that: glad Steve never asked, and has never been forced to hear, specifics of what he did. He's glad Steve’s never there to see the non-judgemental, sympathetic look in his therapist’s eyes, and counter it with ire, or shame, or disgust. He doesn’t think Steve would blame him – not after all he knows about Bucky, however lacking in disturbing specifics his knowledge may be – but Bucky always wonders if today is the day that Steve decides he can no longer tolerate what he’s done. The day he’s found out. 

His therapist told him that his feelings are normal, today. He said to discuss them with Steve – maybe bring him in next time. But he’ll tell Steve about that later. For now, he just wants to hold Steve’s face, peaches and cream, flecked with cinnamon and spice, soft under metal and coarse, worn skin. 

The bell above the door rings: a figure bustles inside.  
“This is Wilson-Rogers-Barnes, you know. WRB. Not a goddamn kissing booth,” Sam grumbles exaggeratedly, though there’s no real heat behind his words. He’s holding a bunch of flowers. 

“Sorry, Sam,” Steve says, blushing right down his arms, though nowhere as luminously as his face. He steps away from the desk, and Bucky follows him with his eyes, smiling almost conspiratorially.  
“And it’s not a pet shop, either – seriously, that thing must belong to someone,” Sam says, looking at Simon warily. Bucky shrugs.  
“No collar. I . . . Had it checked for a chip, a few weeks ago. Nothing,” Bucky says. Steve bites his lip – Bucky catches his expression. “. . . What?” He asks. Steve blushes harder.  
“Actually . . . I found out that Simon is Natasha’s cat, Liho. She actually lives super close. It was to observe me, and work out if Sam was suitable for being Cap – you know, see what kind of company he keeps,” 

“. . . Liho,” Bucky asks, frowning down at the cat, which rolls over, exposing it’s stomach and stretching obnoxiously across the desk, as if it knows it's adorable. “How long have you known that?”  
“Well you just – you guys get along so well! And Natasha’s always away, and her _lawyer_ has to go over and feed her-” Steve says, then pauses, and sighs. “A couple months. Sorry, Buck. Guess she'd rather we looked after her, and for free, instead,” 

Bucky sighs, and looks down at the cat. 

“. . . So Simon’s a girl,” He asks doubtfully.  
“Liho is a unisex name, right?” Sam says. Bucky glances up at him.  
“Like Bucky is,” Steve says helpfully. Bucky snorts lightly.  
“An agender cat for a genderqueer florist. Sometimes I think everyone we talk to is a – is a, um-”  
“Is trans,” Steve tells him, before he uses the wrong term. He still slips, sometimes. He’s had a lot of time to come to terms with being pansexual, and non-binary, in the 21st century. But he still feels some self-hatred, when he sees certain things in the street; in the papers, or on TV, about being ‘a queer’.

So Steve makes sure to get in there, before he says anything that will hurt all three of them. 

“Speaking of. Any greys or blacks in yet?” Sam asks, setting the bouquet of flowers down on the cash desk, avoiding the cat gingerly. “Because, _as you can see_ , the store Riley got these from managed both,” 

Steve examines the flowers: he tuts.  
“Spray-painted. Look – it’s coming off in the rain. But the purples are very nice,” He admits begrudgingly.  
“Huh. Well – if you wanna get ahead, you better make some ace bouquets and posies. I’ve got my best guy to please,”  
“I thought I was your best guy?” Steve says, with a raised eyebrow. Sam laughs.  
“You are! You both are. Hell, even that flea-ball is. You’re all the best. It’s just I don’t kiss you guys. Well – not anymore,” 

Steve blushes ten shades redder than the shade he was just getting over. Bucky’s eyebrows raise.  
“That’s right – used to ask me for _lessons_. 'Please, Sam, I gotta know how to talk to girls and boys!'” Sam says, reminiscing. Steve’s hands cover his face, though his menacing glare is visible between his fingers, directed at Sam, who smiles brightly at him. 

Bucky laughs: it’s a deep, gravelly sound. Still not quite commonplace enough to make up for seventy years of virtual silence, but – well, with how often they make him laugh, he’s well on his way to having a normal laugh again. 

Steve still thinks it’s the most wonderful sound in the world – Sam, and Bucky, laughing, happy – as Bucky rounds the desk, and wraps his right arm around Steve’s shoulders, pulling him close into the softening line of his muscly body. 

“Alright, guys. I’m gonna go shower – gotta scrub up well for tonight. Riley’s coming over – oh, and, uh . . . Maybe some others,” Sam says, wincing slightly. Steve folds his arms.  
“You just got back from breakfast with Riley,” Bucky points out.  
“Yeah, well – he’s got shore leave. And shore leave when you’re Avenger is a joke – you have to grab it when it comes. It’s pretty rare that no one will be causing an international crisis somewhere,” Sam says. But Steve’s more preoccupied with the ‘others’ he mentioned.  
“Others?” He persists. Sam rubs the back of his neck, and explains:  
“You see, I – I might have accidentally invited Thor to dinner. And, uh – Wanda,”  
“You think we’re made of money? Thor’s gonna put us out of house and home - remember when we last saw him? I’ve never seen a guy put away so much pizza!” Steve complains, though it’s clearly in jest. Sam knows, for a fact, that Steve loves Thor. They get along like a house on fire. And Wanda and Bucky like to chat in her native tongue - Sam doesn't know what about, but they always look content enough, and they laugh together, so he doesn't ask. 

“He got the wrong idea! Look – he thought it was a big meal, when I said Riley was gonna be with us – felt rude not to invite him, he looked so sad. And Wanda didn’t have any plans,” Sam mentions. Steve rolls his eyes: he knows for a _fact_ , by now, that Sam must have rang round the Avengers after inviting Thor to dinner. He doesn’t want anyone to feel left out – Steve can just be thankful that more Avengers were busy. Though he loves almost all of them, he's glad he doesn’t have to feed many more. 

He places one hand on his hip, and snakes the other around Bucky’s waist, resting his hand on the jut of his hip.  
“Fine. We’ll figure it out. Go get ready, Romeo,” Steve tells Sam, who laughs – but before he leaves, he steps up to hug Steve and Bucky. 

Bucky stiffens, for a moment, like he usually does: he just has to register that he could break from the warm, comfortingly tight hug at any moment he wants. Then he can close his eyes, for a moment or two, and just accept the love he’s being offered. Two sets of arms around him, not restraining, not pulling, not wanting, but giving. Supporting, embracing, loving. Allowing him to bloom into the person he’s meant to be, accept the things he always loved, after so long with a barren, cold wasteland of a mind. 

Sam pulls back, and leaves them to go and scrub up, while they continue to man the shop together: Steve and Bucky watch him leave, before Bucky gazes down at Steve, watching him put his bony hands on his hips, and shake his head.  
“Don’t know if my pot is big enough for _that_ much stew,” He says, and looks up at Bucky with those big blue eyes. 

Bucky considers the problem for a moment; licks his lips, and grins. 

“Pies from the Rosenbergs?” He asks: he sees them most weeks at temple, now, so of _course_ his mind would go straight to them. Steve’s smile grows slowly on his face, freckles dancing across his skin, in the same way Bucky’s stubble glints in the mid-morning light.  
“I love you, Bucky Barnes,” Steve says, and reaches to wrap his arms around Bucky’s neck, stepping up on top of his shoes to crane upwards for a deep kiss. Bucky smiles into it, in the knowledge that he’s done something good; that he knows what _good_ is, and that he has the choice to do it. 

He’s growing. He’s learning – so is Steve, so is Sam. But with their help, he can grow into anything he wants. Amongst a forest of fragrant flowers, and creeping vines, and luscious green plants residing as naturally in Brooklyn as if they’d sprung up from the cracks in the paving slabs outside, he finds an oasis of calm in Steve’s eyes. He finds a gentle summer breeze, or a magnificent breath-taking gale, in Steve’s voice. He finds the chill of days gone by and conquered in Steve’s bones, and they let him know not that he’s won the fight inside himself, but that he’s winning. 

He finds home, in a flower shop. He finds his home in a florist.


End file.
